Playing the Fool
by GinTsuki
Summary: There are too many coinicidences cropping up in the aftermath of Sherlock's suicide, and John is starting to wonder if everything isn't what it seems.
1. Chapter One

**Playing the Fool**

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><p>Chapter One<p>

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><p>.<p>

There was a time when John thought the game would never end. Reality just didn't apply around Sherlock Holmes. Days bled into nights. Memories unfurled. The doctor recalled chasing London shadows in the street; their footfalls still haunting the cobblestone alleyways when John paused to listen. Those sleepless nights, followed by quick breakfasts with Sherlock staring at him, waiting for the moment they both could fly out the doors again in order to save the world from some arrogant sod with a master plan.

There were the dark restaurant stake outs, and knocks on witness's doors, and spontaneous cover stories concocted without a word. John remembered scared laughter at gunpoint, loud arguments over impractical social conventions, and the smug expression on Sherlock's face whenever he made John smile. He still had the ashtray Sherlock nicked months ago from Buckingham place. John didn't know why he didn't pack it up with the science equipment and clothing all neatly stacked in the detective's room.

There was just too much to remember – now, when remembering was all he could do. Moments were falling like raindrops through his fingers and it was all he could do but try to hold onto them, draw them tighter in his grief stricken mind and soak in them.

Those moments with Sherlock were when John couldn't remember what day of the week it was… or even if he had seen a bed in the last twenty-four hours. They were the moments when Sherlock forced everything to fall into place, and John knew _innately_ that his place was right beside the incorrigible detective.

Now he stared at the wall - not knowing if it were a Monday, or a Friday. He stared at the wall – knowing that he hadn't slept in days. He stared at the wall, wondering why _this time_ it felt so different when essentially it was the same.

The yellow smiley-face stared back at him, and John groaned to kill the silence.

The doctor closed his eyes - tired. Beneath the calm exterior he felt a tremble at his core. A bright fire was dancing in the grate, attempting to lighten the mood, but John was having none of it. His head bowed and he rested it in his hand. Mrs. Hudson came by, silent as a ghost and just as pale, to set down a cup of tea at the side table. She left quietly, her footsteps dying in the dust she couldn't bear to clean at the moment.

When Sherlock died, everything changed.

He had lost friends in the war. Good friends. Friends whose faces he could remember shining in mess hall lights, grinning over a beer. John recalled the sadness he felt then, and he tried to compare it to how he felt now, but confusion dominated everything. The contrast between the past and present was striking, and it made John wonder if he had ever felt true sorrow before now. Losing Sherlock wasn't like losing one of his mates, it was something _more_. The emotion had no place – no label readily available. John was trying to hammer a piece of a jigsaw into a hollow space that would never fit.

The practical man in him made an appointment to see his therapist. The practical man in him told John that he needed to get as far away from this flat as he could. The practical man in him would have been silenced by a gunshot if John could will it. He wanted his mind empty. He wanted to feel _nothing_, because this emotion was too heavy to deal with right now.

The funeral came and went so hastily that John barely had time to adjust. He said his piece. He had humoured himself by choking up at that polished tombstone. The words sounded silly now that he was away from the grave and the weight it put on his mind.

"_You told me once, that you weren't a hero… there were times I didn't think you were human; but, let me tell you this - you were the best man, the most human… human being that I've ever known._"

So human. So fallible in his last moments when the he wanted so desperately to be anything but. John didn't want to remember Sherlock's arm reaching out – reaching to touch something almost tangible between the two of them. A bond, the likes of which the world had never known.

"_John…_"

He didn't want to remember Sherlock's voice, coated in grain from the mobile phone and the breeze that kicked up his coat on the roof of St. Barts. It was full of doubt and fear. It had to be an act, it _had_ to be; Sherlock never sounded like that. His deep voice erupted with lies, telling John that everything he knew was magic and trickery. Sherlock would have known John wouldn't swallow it. Then why did he bother? _Why?_

"_No one will ever convince me that you told me a lie._"

The sad smile that John _swore_ he heard in the man's tones when he protested swam in his mind now – quirky and subtle. That beautiful goodbye. The sound of the detective's phone clattering against the gravel making John scream out his name.

"_I was so alone… and I owe you so much._"

John recalled the feeling of his heart being drawn from his throat as Sherlock leaned forward and tipped himself over the edge. Graceful – as always, even when destined for a messy end.

"_Please… there is just one more thing, one more miracle… for me Sherlock._"

Gravity. So much gravity. The sound - _oh god_, the sound of flesh hitting sidewalk. The ringing in his ears. The sight of blood blossoming around Sherlock like it was reaching out to the cracks in the concrete for help. John managed to fumble for a hand in the chaos of stunned bystanders, but it was taken from him the moment he touched the chilled skin. Taken forever.

"_Don't. Be. **Dead**._"

Sherlock's eyes were like discs of moonlight, staring into nothing - and why would they? There were no clues left to search for. Pale blue in a halo of red. In the seconds John had to take in his face, it looked peaceful, as if he didn't mind losing everything – as if he didn't leave his best friend alone in a world that didn't make any sense anymore.

He was a perfect picture of death.

"_Just for me… just stop it… **stop this**."_

It was like snapping out a dream. John found himself sitting across from Mycroft at a gleaming table, barely hearing the words coming out of the elder Holmes' mouth. He looked around, disoriented and a little frightened to find himself lost in familiarity. Some part of John knew he was there because Sherlock left a will and Mycroft was resolving it, but the doctor didn't remember what was in it. He had nodded at all the right places and signed various lines highlighted with convenient Xs by the look of it. There was a fraction of his mind that felt close to Sherlock in this madness, for it used to be he that zoned out of reality to jar himself back to the present.

John was losing track of time – forgetting where he was or who he was with.

Mycroft analyzed John's face, impassive as ever. "Are you all right?"

"Are any of us…?" He whispered, surprised to find his voice a higher pitch then he recognized. His eyes were hollow and bruised from lack of sleep. He rubbed them, the pen he was using to sign documents still in his hand. He noticed it and went to put it down before he stabbed himself in the eye, but there was too much finality in the movement.

"Where are you staying?"

John forced his fingers to drop the pen and moved from the table to his coat. He knew full well that Mycroft was aware he had been spending his nights at Harry's. This conversation was a poor excuse to get into his head - or to see if John still had one.

"I'm staying at my sister's, and before you ask, there's nothing you can do to help."

"John…"

"I don't blame you Mycroft. If that is what you're wondering."

The silence between them festered, for they both knew that was a lie. Had Mycroft been more careful, Moriarty wouldn't have had the means to undermine the world's only consulting detective.

John threw himself out the door and onto the streets, not caring if Mycroft was staring after him with a hawk-like expression. The elder Holmes had been trying far too hard to make things right over the last few weeks, and John resented it with a passion. It was almost as if he took up Sherlock's bitterness towards his brother, just to keep some part of the man alive.

John didn't care where he was heading; he just felt the urge to move. The doctor had gotten into the habit of walking until he was too tired to continue, but much to his chagrin, he found he was never tired enough to sleep. He was at this point when he sat himself down rather heavily at a park bench and went back to his new hobby of staring at nothing in particular.

The weather was overcast and there weren't too many people around to see him lean back and turn his face up at the sky. His eyes were closed and he was taking a long drag of cold air like a man psyching himself up for a plunge. Images played through his mind of his life over the past eighteen months. The memories were well worn into his head now that he's gone over them a thousand times. The emotions they evoked made John feel like he was drowning.

It was a struggle not to scream out - to get angry at the world for _everything_. Rage was so much more bearable than despair. Rage would allow him to walk forward when every fibre of his being wanted to go back in time; back to the days when Sherlock would spell everything out for him and clarity would break upon him like cold water.

"Are you all right?"

John opened his eyes to see a hale old woman with a sympathetic expression stop on her way by. She had no remarkable features, but the lines of her face reflected a subtle shared understanding. John could swear he heard Sherlock's voice in his ear as he took in her stooped back and hollow eyes.

"_This woman has seen loss before._"

"No. I'm not." The words came unbidden from his mouth, and John regretted them the moment they hit the open air.

The woman nodded and hobbled over. With some hesitation she sat down next to the man and awkwardly folded her wrinkled hands onto her lap. Every articulation looked painful and John wondered if he could get her to leave if he wrote her a prescription for an analgesic.

"I don't usually talk to strangers young man… but at my age that's all you got left."

John gave a sarcastic smile. He wasn't up for conversation with the elderly. He just wanted to be left alone.

"I've seen that expression before lad - on faces that are older and wiser than yours. Was it family you lost or a lover?"

"A friend."

There was a pregnant pause before the woman went to put a hand on John's shoulder. The man had stiffened at the prospect of touch, and she retracted it before it even made contact. It was obvious he didn't wish to be comforted by a dodgy newcomer.

"Must have been one hell of a friend."

"Yeah." John said with a bit of annoyance in his voice. He refused to make eye contact in the hopes that the woman would just go away. It was awful, but he was suppressing the urge to just scream at her to mind her own business.

She watched John for a moment before shifting her posture to make herself more comfortable. John wanted to shoot himself at this point.

"When my husband died, I thought I lost everything. I couldn't find anything to live for… I had no purpose you see."

John closed his eyes to try to shut her out.

"Obituary said '_survived by his loving wife Hilda_' but that wasn't true; Hilda the wife died with Bill the husband. All I had left was Hilda the mother and Hilda the lab technician. I poured everything that once was considered _wife_ into those two things. It was the only way to keep moving forward." She turned her head to stare at John as if she weren't self aware. "Do you have any children?"

"No."

"Work?"

John opened his eyes and took in a deep breath. "I'm a doctor."

A slow smile worked its way into the elders face, "Aa! A doctor! My son Sam is a doctor here in London as well. Gone into private practice. Keeps him out of trouble, though I dare say he needs some help around the place now that I'm getting on in years. Where are you working?"

He could sense the set up and wanted nothing to do with it.

"I work part-time at a clinic when they require it, but I'm not interested in anything right now." His voice was terse now.

"Of course. Not now… when there is still so much left to heal." The old woman got up with some creaking and dusted off her floral dress. "But once you feel like moving on and healing others… you can call this number if you like. My Samuel has a heavy patient list, and I'm sure the kind of man who was willing to listen to this old lady ramble on would be an instant hit with our clients."

John took the simple white business card that was offered and tucked it into his coat pocket. "I'll think about it." He gave a false smile. "It was nice meeting you…marm."

"It's Hilda. Hilda Spencer. Nice meeting you too Doctor Watson." She inclined her head politely and moved along, her shuffling gait making her seem older than the wrinkles let on. John was left alone with his thoughts and when Mrs. Spencer finally left his field of view, he let out a breath he didn't even know he was holding. Her talk had rubbed him the wrong way; after all, what did a stranger know about his life?

Then John did a double take and slowly drew the business card back out of his pocket and gawked at it with uncertainty. What _did_ a stranger know about his life? Apparently his name, even though he didn't give her one.

He flipped the card over to find green ink on the back of it.

"_For when you feel like moving on._"

"What in the…?" He muttered as he shifted about to see if he was being watched. She must have written that before she met him, there was no other explanation. That coupled with knowing his name, must mean that this conversation was staged. Everything about the last five minutes felt very Holmes, and John was not pleased.

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><p><strong>Author's Notes<strong>:

So I'm back again since I've just finished gushing about the second series. I was debating posting this story on the back of 'Exception to the Rule' but I think I'll let it stand alone. Gives me more freedom to muck about. This story will be multi-chaptered and like BBC Sherlock, it will pay homage to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's works more often then not. **Please read and review**, I'm rushing these chapters so that I can go back and edit them when inspiration dies, or I get stuck - feel free to point out anything that sounds funny or the many many grammatical errors fraught throughout the thing. I need feedback to live - or more literally, this fic needs feedback to live.

PS. Moffat says that fans are missing something critical in the last episode and I think I found it out... so keep a sharp eye and see if you can catch it too before I write about it.

- GinTsuki


	2. Chapter Two

**Playing the Fool**

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><p>Chapter Two<p>

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><p>.<p>

John sat in the lobby of the Diogenes club for an hour before he happened to run into Mycroft on his way to some important political affair. The pair of them spotted each other immediately and both of them adopted serious expressions that made onlookers shudder. Mycroft waved off two of his associates with only a passing word before approaching the patient doctor and raising an eyebrow.

"What can I do for you John?"

"You can stop meddling for once. Are little old ladies on your payroll now, or did this one just owe you a favor?" John held up the business card Hilda Spencer had given him. It was slightly bent now that it had been in his pocket for some time.

The look on Mycroft's face was unreadable, but there was some hesitation in his movements as he plucked the paper from John's hand. He flipped it over and examined the ink on the back. Dark eyes traced every curve of every letter before holding the card up to the light and repeating the process. He offered it back to the doctor with the same amount of hesitation he had when taking it.

"This wasn't my doing."

John scoffed and stood up from his well warmed spot on the lobby bench. "You're telling me you had nothing to do with this? Nothing at all?"

"I don't even know the context in which you received this. Obviously it had to be disconcerting if you're pointing fingers my way. What did Dr. Spencer say to you?" The tone of voice Mycroft used was equal parts curiosity and concern.

"His mother was the one doing the talking… and it was just…" John shook his head; this was not what he expected to get out of his trip to visit the elder Holmes. "I don't understand. She knew my name and she must have had the card ready before she sat down to talk to me..." Unless he had zoned out like he was prone to doing these days and was making an ordeal out of nothing at all.

Mycroft put a hand on John's shoulder. "Very peculiar. I suggest you get to the bottom of this mystery John."

"I'm not one for mysteries Mycroft…"

"Neither am I, but I do say we've both had our fair share." He removed his hand from John's shoulder and turned to enter one of the grand rooms that opened off the lobby. "Do tell me if you find anything interesting."

John watched him leave, exasperated that he had wasted his time. The only thing left to do now was give Doctor Samuel Spencer a call and see if he could glean how his mother had managed to arrange their conversation.

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John didn't know exactly how it happened, but he found himself sitting in a quaint living room that smelled of hyacinths, sipping tea while waiting for young Mrs. Spencer to finish organizing a platter of baked goods. Across from him sat a cheerful Mr. Spencer (who pleaded with John to just call him Sam) who was eyeing him with glee.

"I've been wanting to meet you for some time Mr. Watson. That blog of your is something special. My mother should have told you outright that we were fans of yours, instead of making you fret for days about that business card. When my mother spotted you across the park she got a little ahead of herself. "His light-heartedness was rather contagious and John found he could relax easily in this man's company. There was openness in the way he talked and moved that was very refreshing.

Mrs. Spencer, whom Sam had introduced as Matilda, came in and set a silver dish full of goodies on the coffee table whilst smiling brightly. Her shoulder length hair was nut-brown and pulled into a knot at the nape of her neck. She also wore a knitted sweater and slacks, which reminded John of the garments house-wives you'd see on TV would wear - except Matilda had about fifty more pounds then most the actresses. The weight suited her somehow.

"There you are gents! The fruit of a day's labour!"

"I hope you didn't bake all this on my account…" John said suddenly as he took in the sight of a dozen different types of pastries, scones, cookies and cakes.

"She's gone mad. I know, it's _dreadful_. Yesterday she made thirty different types of pierogi. How many pierogi can one man handle? I'll tell you how many – 52 before one vomits on one's self." Samuel said with a teasing smirk before Matilda came over and pushed at his shoulder playfully.

"I'm practicing my domestic skills. I need improvement, and John here gave me good reason to work on my baking." She turned to the military doctor and gestured to the platter. "Try a bit of everything and don't be afraid to tell me if it's awful. Sam does all the time and I haven't murdered him yet."

John watched the two interact in silence. It was obvious that they were very much in love and it repelled the part of him that wanted to believe that everything good in the world died with Sherlock. Yet, his mouth curled slightly upwards at the corners as he sipped his tea. These people weren't waiting for him to explode, or to roll over and die from grief. It was a nice change.

"So, have you given my mum's offer any thought? We could use a hand at the clinic… I'm afraid I've bitten off more than I can chew – and you have a knack for solving people's problems." He ran a hand through his short tawny hair before pouring himself another cup of tea. He took four lumps of sugar. John suddenly wondered who his dentist was.

"That was more Sherlock's forte than mine…"

Sam scoffed and flapped a hand at the doctor, "Naw! You can't believe that! There is far more to you than meets the eye John, Sherlock saw that."

The name didn't hurt so much when Samuel said it. It scared John a little, since he wasn't sure he was ready for it not to.

"I still have things to sort out."

"Of course! Come round to have a chat when you're good and ready and we'll sign some paperwork and talk some things out. Your resume is practically online, and it would be nice to have a local celebrity around the place."

It was like Doctor Spencer knew nothing of the latest news. John was more of a laughing stock than a celebrity. Something in his face must have shown because the brightness in Samuel's eyes diminished slightly. "There are many who do not believe everything the media jumps on John. I went to university with Sherlock, though he was two years ahead of me. He was the most brilliant man I have ever met - if a bit rude. I've seen him work out things that shouldn't have been possible. Tricks might explain much, but it can't explain everything. Besides, if he were making up cases I doubt he'd let you publish the ones he couldn't solve."

"True. He was far too arrogant…" John gave a shady grin. He recalled reading the annoyance in Sherlock's expression when the detective read the post about the man in the car boot in Surrey. "He wanted people to think he was infallible."

"You knew better though." Samuel winked and took one of his wife's cookies. "Oh, that reminds me, Matty and I were wondering if you played poker. Some chaps are coming round tonight for a game, but we're missing two and I was hoping to get at least four."

John politely declined and gave all the appropriate signs that he was planning on slipping out soon. He was still feeling a little dazed at how friendly the Spencer's were and how easily he let them seep under his skin. Entering their house felt like physiotherapy for the soul. Perhaps it was because there was absolutely nothing to remind him about Sherlock there. Also, whenever his mind began to wander towards anything depressing, Samuel would pull him into a conversation about football, new medical practices, politics or something similar.

When John got up to leave, Matilda made sure he went with a brown bag full of her baking.

"Take care, and come by anytime after seven if you wish. Samuel is desperate for help…"

"I'll see what I can do. Thank-you for everything." He was surprised that he meant it whole-heartedly. He zipped up his coat and shimmied on his shoes.

"It was my pleasure. Good bye John."

"_Goodbye John._"

His mind echoed Matilda in Sherlock's voice and made him freeze. By the time he snapped out of it he found himself staring at the Spencer's door closing before him with a soft snap. Leisurely he thought that perhaps he _should_ stay. Perhaps he _was_ moving on?

"Goodbye…" John whispered to no one, feeling a little juvenile as he did so. It didn't sound right in the open air. He wondered why he did it, yet a fragment of his consciousness already knew the reason; he never really said goodbye to Sherlock. He was always waiting for the moment the detective would walk out from behind a tree and magically turn everything back the way it was.

The doctor made up his mind and walked back to the door. He had played poker many times over seas and was rather good at it. After all, there was nothing to go home to. Not anymore.

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><p><strong>Author's Notes<strong>:

Not much plot development, sorry. Needed to do some set-up for the next chapter which is when things really kick off. I'm hoping the Spencer's get well recieved, they're going to be what get John out of his angst world and back into working again. I think that's what makes ACD's reunion so emotional... or for that matter, any hopeless reunion so powerful - the fact that the loss cuts deep, gets properly bandaged, then the reader is left wondering if there is a scar or an open wound festering beneath. You don't know till the bandaid comes off. The Spencer's are the bandaid.

Also, sorry if my fics are fraught with metaphors and similes. I breathe those suckers. **Review if you can!**I need feedback in all forms! This chapter wasn't proof-read (it's 3am, and I work tomorrow) so point and laugh at my mistakes or tell me something that you like. Love!

- GinTsuki


	3. Chapter Three

**Playing the Fool**  
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><p>Chapter Three<p>

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It was the first night John spent back at Baker Street since _the incident_. Three months. That is how long the doctor allowed the echoes of Sherlock Holmes to haunt him before he decided that it was time to let go. At least, that's what he told himself as he unlocked the door and crept up the steps.

The flat had changed in his absence. It didn't _feel_ like home. Everything belonging to Sherlock had been moved into the detective's room ages ago. John heard that Mycroft's people had clearly labeled every container so that there was no chance of something accidently reacting with something else. John thought it was a joke until he they made an MSDS catalogue with corresponding stickers incase John needed to fetch anything.

The lack of Sherlock's rubbish made the common room bare. John felt out of place now that he didn't have to walk around bins of post-dissected material and poorly placed mannequins. He walked up to the windows, glad that they still retained some familiarity, before he drew the curtains and opened them. The afternoon light poured in and highlighted corners and edges John had nearly forgotten – the smiley face attracted his attention almost immediately, and he looked away ashamed.

There was a fine layer of dust covering everything since Mrs. Hudson had fallen ill some days ago. It was part of the reason John wanted to return to 221B, since it didn't look like she was getting any better. From the ten minutes he spent examining her in the hallway, the doctor concluded that it was most probably pneumonia. He forced her to go to bed and promised that he'd check in on her every few hours. She protested of course, but John wouldn't hear anything she said.

"I'm not losing you too," was all he muttered in the end.

A small seed of guilt embedded itself at the doctor's core when he saw the effect the words had on the older woman. Immediately she did as she was asked and slipped off to bed like a scolded child. Meanwhile, John had gone upstairs to finish settling in.

After an hour of silently puttering around, the doctor turned on the telly to break the melancholy atmosphere that drifted in like a heavy fog. Cheerful voices welcomed him as a comedy sketch started; John pried his eyes away from the shifting camera angles to go and make himself a cup of tea.

Every time John left the room, he almost expected the little Sherlock voice that was developing in his head to ask him where he was going, what he was doing or if he could make two of whatever John was throwing together. It stung having to force himself to fill the kettle only part-way. Squashing the instinct to grab a second mug made him set down his own with an unhealthy _clunk_, and he nearly had a row with himself for taking out the sugar even though he liked his tea without.

John took his cup to the common room and threw himself down in front of the television to distract himself from the world around him. Shortly after the tea went cold, night commenced, and John didn't feel comfortable leaving his chair even to go the bathroom. He was quite content to listen to some foxy newscaster, whose name he couldn't quite remember, ramble on about some epidemic in France while his chin started to dip into his chest. He startled himself awake several times, after which he debated moving himself to his old bed. However, before he could reach a decision, his head lolled back and his eyes fluttered shut.

He was standing next to Sherlock on the edge of the rooftop, looking down at the pavement below feeling ill. The air was thicker up here then it should have been, and John struggled to breathe.

"I don't understand."

A breeze ruffled Sherlock's curls, but John couldn't feel it on his face.

"Hardly surprising John - you're playing the fool."

The doctor knew it was impossible, but it seemed like Sherlock was staring at the ground while simultaneously turning his head to give his friend a coy smirk. Something in John caved then. It felt like his heart had swollen up and was trying to burst out of his chest.

John inched closer, trying to balance on the very edge of the roof.

"You consistently refuse to see that is right in front of you." Sherlock watched the people milling around on the street below. There was so much arrogance in the tilt of his head and the set of his lips.

"You. You're right in front of me." John grabbed Sherlock's wrist to stop him from suddenly vaulting off the building on a whim. It felt warm and tangible. For some reason he felt like he wanted to cry, but he didn't know why. He hadn't jumped. Not yet.

"No John. I'm not."

It was then when John became fully aware that he was experiencing a dream. He wanted to savor the moment, hold on to it before Sherlock faded into illusion, but his consciousness was pulling itself back into reality. The dreamscape shifted and John stumbled and whirled his arms to regain balance. His fingers slipped from Sherlock's wrist as he toppled the wrong way off the building. He remembered Sherlock reaching out to him, a cold expression on his face as John plummeted into nothingness.

John woke up with a single gasp and nearly choked on his own saliva. The clock on the mantle read 4am and the doctor rubbed his face feeling like he hadn't slept at all. He abandoned his cold tea, shut off the television and fumbled through the darkness to his old room. He was trying desperately to keep his mind clear and forget about the dream he just had. The last thing he needed was to relapse into depression and fail to be in adequate condition to take care of Mrs. Hudson.

Once John arrived as his destination, he flopped on his bed without changing his clothes. The blankets were chilly and they smelt of mothballs but he didn't care. He wanted to feel nothing again.

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It was All Saint's Day, or as doctors knew it, the second most wretched day to work. Halloween had came and gone, leaving injuries and hang-overs in it's wake. John had promised Samuel Spencer he'd come in to help with the inevitable chaos, but he wasn't expecting so much chaos from a private practice. There were a lot of people who were under the impression that Spencer's Clinic was a walk-in establishment. When John went to inquire about why they didn't refer people to the sign, the receptionist sighed with frustration.

"Every time some shaky old woman comes in off the street, Sam gives them a look over anyway. Most the time they're just dehydrated or lonely… but it doesn't do much for profit know does it?" She snapped and went back to the line up of check-ins that was getting rather testy from whatever ailments were afflicting them.

Meanwhile John said hello to Dr. Spencer as he passed him in the hallway and went to see his first patient who managed to split his lip sometime in the night.

Three patients later, John was giving a physical to an elderly chap with good humor when he heard a commotion in the waiting room. There was an awful lot of shouting and a few terrified gasps. The doctor discarded his gloves and looked to the door with concern.

"Sorry Mr. Ambrose, to you mind if I check-in on the receptionist?" He was wondering if it was a serious medical emergency or if a child just threw up on someone.

"Yes - but I'm not going to stop you. A half-naked man chasing down his doctor wouldn't look to good would it?" He chuckled in good nature, but John knew he was uncomfortable being left in a room with nothing but his underwear.

"I'll be as quick as I can." The doctor smiled reassuringly before slipping out of the examination room and heading down the hallway. However, once he heard the torrent of swearing and sound of breaking porcelain he started to run.

"Rosemary! Go and fetch John would you!" Came the exasperated voice of Dr. Spencer as he tried to restrain a very lively colored man who was sporting a serious looking scalp wound. The man was bleeding everywhere and trying to throw the doctor off. All the while he was screaming about how this clinic wasn't going to serve him because he was a minority. From the look of two broken chairs and a flower pot John assumed he was hostile.

Reflexively John reached for his gun, but mentally slapped himself when he realized he hadn't carried it for nearly four months now – he was going to have to stop this man with his bare hands. John approached, ready to back Dr. Spencer up when the man made his move, but their target became startled at facing two opponents and threw himself backwards into a wall to stun the doctor at his back.

There was a horrible crunching sound and the trill of shattered glass as a diploma fell off the wall, followed by Samuel who had sprawled on top of it.

John took the opportunity to move to the man's side as he recovered from attacking Dr. Spencer. He then grabbed one of the assailant's arms and twisted it behind him to get some purchase before kicking out his knees and sending the man neatly to the floor. He kept control by wrenching the man's arm occasionally to make him listen.

"Sir, you are going to sit here for the next twenty minutes and hope that you can afford the charges that will be pressed against you." John looked up at the dozen scared faces around him and sought out the receptionist. Rosemary made eye contact and rushed for the phone.

"Ambulance first Rosemary… if you could." John said, practically sitting on top of the man. "Are you all right Sam?"

The fallen doctor groaned and chuckled at the same time. "Sliced my hand up pretty bad. Might need a few stitches. I'm going nip in the back and deal with it…"

John laughed. A good honest giggle. Here he was subduing some upstart in the middle of a bloodied clinic, loving every second of it while there were all sorts of people around him horrified. What kind of man was he? Is this what Sherlock felt like when he was on a case?

"Go ahead, I have things covered here. Rosemary, when you get off the phone, can you tell Mr. Ambrose to put his clothes on? This might take awhile…"

It did. It took the ambulance nearly half an hour to show up. Thankfully the police showed up at the same time. They took over from John and eased the colored man into the back of the ambulance, whilst others went around gathering statements from everyone that was in the waiting room. John over heard some of them calling him a hero. Dr. Spencer came back just as the police were taking a few photographs of the blood that was everywhere.

"You all right John? That was quite the show… you got him down in what? Two minutes?" Samuel eyed his colleague with some concern and wonder.

"Used to be a soldier remember? He was injured anyway, don't think he meant any real harm. How's the hand?"

The doctor showed it to John with a painful grimace. "Six stitches… not my best work. I suppose my Uni professor knew what he was saying when he said doctors can't perform surgery on themselves."

His hand looked a mess, but it was nothing Samuel couldn't handle. The pair of them were soon spotted by a cop who wanted an in depth interview. It took a whole hour of questioning, but luckily Rosemary was on the ball and had a kettle going in Spencer's office. She ushered out the patients and started cleaning the floors when Samuel told her to go home instead and that he'd find someone else to deal with the mess. She protested at first, but Samuel was very persuasive.

Soon it was just the two doctors standing in a darkening room as the police left them to clean the aftermath. Samuel frowned and started to sweep up the broken glass and chips of dried blood while John fetched a mop and worked on the floors. He noticed Samuel's medical diploma was stained and ripped from the fall.

"That's going to be hell to replace." He said empathetically.

Samuel smiled and tore it in two. "Nah, it's a fake."

This made John freeze. "Wait… are you telling me…. you're not a real doctor?"

There was a brief moment of awkward silence before Samuel burst out laughing and buckled over. It was a solid minute before he could talk between his hysterics.

"You're face! My god your face!" He puffed and wiped tears from his eyes. "Of course I'm a real doctor! What sort of idiot would keep his real diploma in the waiting room of his clinic? Good god…"

John gave a hazy smile. He felt like a bit of an idiot. "It's a good fake though…"

'The real one is safe and sound at home." He threw out the glass and the paper into the rubbish bin. "I wish I had a camera for that expression you gave me. Hilarious. I have to tell Matty about it, though she's going to tear a strip off me for what happened. Not going to be able to do the dishes for awhile…"

John laughed did a final mop of the ground before wheeling the bucket down the hall. He poured out the murky contents, amused to see such a strange pink color in the sink. On his way back he grabbed his jacket and his briefcase from his make-shift office.

"Want a ride home? I think you deserve one." Dr. Spencer said as he locked up the clinic behind them and headed to his car.

John declined the kind offer and opted instead to walk home. It was one of the highlights of his day. There was still nothing waiting for him at 221B and the night air was good for him. When he did arrive some hours later, Mrs. Hudson had suggested he get himself a cat since the frown on his face looked set in stone.

"I don't like the thought of you alone up there all the time."

"I'm fine Mrs. Hudson. Truly." He started his ascension but halted when Mrs. Hudson came to the first step.

"You don't have to stay here on my account you know…" There was a catch in her voice which made John slowly come back down the stairs and take her hands in his. Her eyes were shining and John could see the anxiety hidden deep within them. She was a woman who didn't like being left alone.

"I know." He said simply before patting her hand and going back upstairs.

He was going to race her to see who would brew the extra cup of tea first.

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><p><strong>Author's Notes<strong>:

Sorry it's slow, but I need to get the set-up right or else it will make so sense once the plot starts moving - which it's going to in the next chaper. It's like a rollercoaster ride; you have to go up first before the fun begins. You're at the top now. **Please review**. Again, I live for reviews. The more I get the more I pace around worrying that I'm leaving people hanging. That and I know I'm wretched at proof-reading so having those of you with keen English skills poke and prod at my work makes me very happy.

Tell me what you like, what you hate, or what you had for breakfast - _just review_!


	4. Chapter Four

**Playing the Fool**

**.**

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><p>Chapter Four<p>

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><p>.<p>

He was standing next to Sherlock, feeling a sense of déjà vu when the confusion hit. Below him, over the edge, crawled little people; little people who didn't matter in the grand scheme of things. They were just hats and motives, moving about like bacteria in a Petri dish. Beside him Sherlock chuckled, a deep rolling laugh that made John close his eyes to better hear the sound.

"Now you're thinking like me John." He turned, his feet seeking the edge of the rooftop as if he were playing a game of chicken. "_Good._"

John let out a choked sound - a failed attempt to convey fear and sentiment simultaneously. He dived to grab Sherlock, but the man took a step back and raised one dark eyebrow coyly.

"You can't stop this John. You can only try to understand it."

The doctor drew in a shaky breath between his clenched teeth. Anger was starting to get the best of him and he balled his hands into fists. "Try to understand _what_ Sherlock! There's nothing to understand!"

Sherlock looked away, his face bearing the expression of one who was trying to explain quantum physics to a toddler. "I _gave_ you all the puzzle pieces. It's up to _you_ to put them together. You know me better than most of the ignorant fools out there… open your eyes John! _Observe!_"

"_Keep your eyes fixed on me!_" The wind howled as if it had a voice. The breeze blew around the pair of them, but only Sherlock was buffeted as his hair and coat were whipped up and around his pale frame. John was startled by the sound and turned his face to the sky as if it were to blame. Written words peppered the sky above them and John felt his consciousness tugging at his core. He was in a dream again.

"John. You're so close." Sherlock's voice was strong and coaxing as other voices and other times bled into his dreamscape and threatened to drown him. It was overwhelming, but John struggled to remain wrapped in the complex images of his mind - just for a moment longer. There was something important buried here, and it was trying to claw its way out.

It began as a tornado of color and sound.

"_Mind palace_" A vision of Sherlock sitting with his violin; eyes closed, fingers wrapped around the bow as it slid gently over the strings. "_Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!_" Eyes widening, irises dilating. "_You've never been the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable!_" Irene Adler leaning in to kiss Sherlock on the cheek. "_Does that make me special?_" Sherlock grabbing him by the shoulder, forcing him to look into his eyes to see the desperation there. "_Alone is what protects me_." The skull on the mantelpiece. "_Why hound?_" Sherlock's flummoxed expression – nose wrinkling in disgust. "_I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly. In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you." _Sherlock bouncing a ball against the laboratory cabinets like a grounded teenager. "_It's a fake_" A framed diploma shattering on linoleum. "_Friends protect people Sherlock._" Mrs. Hudson crying when he told her the news. "_Strange choice of words. Archaic. It's why I took the case._" Sherlock's phone being cast aside. "_I'm a fake_." Sherlock staring through him over steepled fingers. "_It's just a trick, a magic trick_." Samuel Spencer smiling while he threw bits of paper in the rubbish bin. "_The real one is safe at home._"

John sat bolt upright in his bed, his eyes shining in the darkness. His chest heaved, sucking in oxygen as if he had just broken through the surface of the ocean.

"I'm a _fake_." He whispered to no one in particular. A _fake_. Why would Sherlock say fake over fraud? Maybe it sounded more vulgar? Maybe it was the first word that popped into his head… or maybe – just maybe, it was a clue and Sherlock was out there very much alive.

John threw off his blankets and stumbled to his feet. His mind was racing as if something were chasing it. He began to pace, willing his body to calm down. His heart was beating out a samba. He had to collect his thoughts or else he'd lose the confidence he was feeling, but with every step John's rational brain began to stir from its momentary slumber.

He was probably experiencing some sort of delayed mental break down. His therapist was going to have a field day when he got around to telling her. Sherlock Holmes was _dead_; it was just… just wishful thinking that gave John doubt.

Doubt.

John sat down on the edge of his bed and rubbed his tired eyes. He felt helpless. It was classic Sherlock to leave a mystery in his wake; but if he had, did Sherlock intend for John to solve it? Theoretically, if this _was_ some orchestrated madness on the detective's part, what waited for John at the end of it? If anyone was brilliant enough to fake his own death, it was Sherlock; but could the arrogant twat be sipping tea in some far off country, waiting for the day John showed up with scowl to bring him back home?

It made no sense. Why would Sherlock leave him in the dark? Sherlock had to know what it would do to John. Four and a half months of mourning… was it all for nothing? He was_ seriously_ believing that the idiot could be alive. He had toyed with the idea early in his depression, but his therapist told him it was natural. After the first week, the idea that Sherlock could have arranged the whole thing… that he would… that... that he could be _alive_, was snuffed out.

What if he wasn't though? What if this was John finally snapping? What if he truly went ahead with this belief that his friend was still out there somewhere? Then when reality hit him… what if he couldn't cope? Losing Sherlock a second time would drive him mad.

It was a risk.

"_I said danger… and here you are._"

Sherlock would have known he'd take it.

"_I know you're for real_. _No one could fake being such an annoying dick all the time_."

That's why he would have done it.

John got up and started to dress. There was only one place to start an investigation of Sherlock Holmes' death, and that would be with Mycroft. If there was anything remotely suspicious about the circumstances of Sherlock's suicide, then the elder Holmes would have found it and interrogated it by now.

The doctor donned his coat and his signature grim expression before he stole down the stairs and spilled out onto Baker Street. As he walked in the chilly pre-dawn, John ran various 'meeting with Mycroft' scenarios in his head. He hadn't seen the elder Holmes for a couple of months, and he was under the impression that Mycroft had meant to keep it that way.

.

Getting into Mycroft's office in the early morning was difficult. The security was thorough and the wait was longer than John ever had to endure before. When he finally settled into the chair opposite the diplomat, he was ready spear Mycroft in the eye with one of his expensive fountain pens. He restrained himself and stared across the table with a chilly expression.

"He was a fake."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair. "I was wondering when that steadfast faith would shatter-"

"Stop testing me. You know what I mean. The _body _was a fake, or the falling, or hell… Sherlock could have drugged me - but I know it was a sham."

"One hundred percent?" The man analyzed the doctor, tilting his head the way Sherlock did when something interesting was brought to his attention.

John shot a glare across the table that said everything that needed to be said.

"Why are you here John?"

"If there was something fishy about this case, anything at all, you would know about it."

Mycroft looked down at the surface of his desk. The morning sun was shimmering across it and it seemed to distract him. John knew the man well enough to know he was deliberating, and that meant that he was right. There _was_ something odd about Sherlock's death.

"The CCTV cameras around the hospital went down several hours before he jumped. All of them. That was my first clue. The second was obvious and the most telling; it wasn't Sherlock's body in the casket. The third was the transcript of your phone call. At the time of the jump he needed you in a particular position, didn't he John? And from the statement you gave to the police, you were prevented from being the first on scene by a cyclist with impeccable timing. Too many coincidences – especially when my brother is involved." Mycroft leaned forward and leveled his eyes at the doctor across from him. "And do you really think that Sherlock would mention Molly Hooper in his last moments? From what I had gathered – which is quite a lot as you would know – he held no respect for the woman. She was but an insect buzzing about his ear from time to time. A name drop struck me as strange – unless it was a message."

"What-?" John was stunned by the torrent of information supplied. He was trying to keep up, but Mycroft continued as if he had been waiting for John to ask about the suicide for months.

"Molly Hooper stayed for the funeral and left for two months to Holland. Apparently she needed a long vacation, but on a coroner's salary? No. _Sherlock_ paid for it by cheque. Odd how at the peak of my investigation, the puzzle piece I was most curious about flew out of my reach by leaving the country."

To cope with the news, John slowly detached himself from reality. He had not expected a flood of clues confirming his theory. "Why? Why didn't you tell me all this earlier?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Mycroft gave him the face that annoyed him so much; the 'we-both know-what's-going-on-here' face.

"Not to me."

Mycroft sighed deeply and put a hand to his chin. "John… I don't know how to say this. You are-" He paused to collect his thoughts, causing John to wonder if he were broaching a delicate matter. "You are the only friend my brother has _ever_ known. He's never _needed_ anyone the way he needs you right now. He is alive, of this I am certain."

"How-"

"Not _how_ - that doesn't matter John. It's the _why_ that's important. He didn't cover his tracks. He _chose_ not to. I followed them as far as I could, but I turned up nothing. You have no idea the lengths I have gone to… but you - _you_, John Watson. You know him better than anyone else. He left this trail for you to follow because he knew you would." Mycroft stood and stepped out from behind his desk.

"He told you to blacken his name. It is well known that you're loyal to a fault John. Still, he instructed you to scatter the dregs of his reputation despite knowing you would not." Mycroft crossed the room to pluck two brandy glasses from above his liquor cabinet. "Only explanation? He wanted you to push the others away. He gave you permission to chase him John, but only if you do it alone."

He poured an ample amount of brandy into the snifter and handed it to the doctor.

John stared into the amber depths and shook his head. "What do I do? Where do I start?"

"Lestrade, Hudson and Hooper. Mention your hunches to them; see what comes out of it."

"You must have talked to Molly already."

Mycroft took a sip of his brandy and settled back into his chair. "Yes. Drove her to tears unfortunately. Fragile thing. She insists Sherlock is dead, and that she did the autopsy herself."

John took a mouthful of brandy and set the snifter on Mycroft's desk. "She would do anything for Sherlock." Including sacrificing her job and fleeing the country on of his whims apparently. Is that where Sherlock was? Picking tulips in Holland?

"Exactly. I'm assuming Sherlock left her precise instructions. I'm certain she has information that she can only yield to you."

"But the missing body…"

"She said she handed it over to the funeral director. The paperwork confirms her story, and the director said that he had indeed received a body, but he had never met Sherlock before, so his statement was practically useless. All I know is that it wasn't Sherlock when I arrived to plan the service. When I questioned Molly about it, she said that Sherlock's body definitely left her possession at that time."

John groaned, "I can't believe that Molly is at the heart of this…"

"Sherlock is a master of manipulation John. Miss Hooper is very malleable in my brother's hands. Let us hope the same can be said when it's _you_ doing the manipulating."

The doctor rose and pushed his half-finished glass of brandy in Mycroft's direction. "I don't manipulate people Mycroft; I talk to them like civilized human beings. You should give it a try once in awhile. I think you would be surprised at the results." He turned and marched out the door, knowing full well that he was being rude, especially after everything Mycroft just told him; but he had enough of this bull. Why did the Holmes brothers have to make everything so bloody difficult?

Maybe Molly would shed some more light on the situation and lead him out of this insanity.

.

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><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

I liked this chapter the most so far... I feel like I'm getting at the heart of this fic. I uploaded it without proof-reading as usual, so it's going to be rather rough until I can give it a good once over in the morning. You can help me out if you like by submitting a review with anything that sounds off or is spelt wrong in it. If you can't find anything,** review anyway**! I'm seriously only motivated by feedback... it's a flaw of mine. Shameful, I know. Hope you liked the update.

Also, more of you need to eat proper breakfasts! Sarsaparilla, I'm so happy to liked my bit about the MSDS catalogue... I'm a biology student so I couldn't resist.


	5. Chapter Five

**Playing the Fool**  
>.<p>

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><p>Chapter Five<p>

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><p>.<p>

It was late in the afternoon by the time John found Molly Hooper's apartment complex and he was surprised to discover that it was in a part of town usually reserved for the working class. It was the sort of place that John wouldn't want Molly walking around in after dark - or any woman for that matter. There were copious amounts of graffiti and litter, as well as a pair of loud ruffians screaming at each other in the street. However, John's protective instinct was somewhat pacified when he turned the corner and spotted a freshly whitewashed structure sporting Molly's address. He took in its up-to-date security and well lit walk-ways and mentally nodded to himself. He approached the intercom and was pleased to find that it took him less than a second to find Molly's name plate. It was one of the first on the list - buzzer number 04.

It rang for several seconds before a familiar voice answered, "Hello?"

"Molly, it's me… John. Do you mind if I come up for a moment?"

She buzzed him in, but didn't give any verbal reply. John took that as a bad omen and entered the building tentatively. As soon as he crossed the main threshold he stopped, cursed under his breath, and rolled his eyes. He had forgotten that didn't know her flat number. He turned to go back and use the intercom again when he heard someone calling his name.

"John?"

A door had opened to the right, and Molly was standing in the doorframe looking distressed. John gave her a friendly nod in greeting, which she returned hesitantly before relaxing slightly. She looked healthier than he remembered – that or he had been picturing her in his mind as an emotional wreck. She was dressed casually in jeans and a sweater, her hair unbound and slightly wavy over one shoulder. However, it was her face that attracted most of John's attention; her eyes were full of trepidation.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" She asked with a false smile.

"Yes please." John moved past her and entered her residence as if it were his own. His eyes roamed over everything, taking in details in case he would require them later. From his preliminary analysis, he figured out she owned a cat, but such a deduction was aided by the cat popping out of a doorway to stare at the newcomer with curious eyes.

Molly shut the door behind them and moved into the kitchenette. "That's Toby by the way. He's a little shy… but he doesn't bite."

The sound of running water alerted John to the use of the kettle. He showed himself to the living room and sat down on the comfortable sofa to wait. The décor of the apartment was old fashioned and a tad more pastel than John had expected. If Sherlock were there, he could have probably spelled Molly's entire life story from the walls and surfaces.

"Sorry to drop in like this… I just had a few questions." John said loudly so that he could be heard over Molly's tea preparations.

He was answered by the sound of a saucer hitting a countertop too hard, followed by porcelain trembling against porcelain.

"N-No problem! I seldom get visitors... the only people I see on a daily basis are dead after all." Her voice was higher pitched now that she was engaged in small talk. She looked frazzled as she emerged from the kitchen and set down the well stocked tea set between the two of them. There was nothing but awkward tension in the air as Molly settled into a floral arm chair and tried to look anywhere but at John. It was amazing how the woman could turn an uncomfortable situation into something so much worse.

"Anything the matter?" John smiled faintly. Her body language screamed that she had something to hide. It was a wonder Mycroft didn't drag her into an interrogation chamber the moment she returned to England.

Molly slowly turned her head, forcing herself to look at the doctor. "No… no… I'm fine. Questions? You said you had questions…"

John extended a hand towards the teapot and glanced up at her, "May I?"

"Oh! Yes… sorry. I'm not a very good hostess. Well… I am. Well… I mean, with tea. Err… sorry." She put her hands to her face, embarrassed. "So sorry, very long day, I haven't really wound down yet. There was this horrible corpse at work - recently fished out of the Thames. Everyone knows I hate the bloated ones since they just 'pop' when you go to open them you know… gets everywhere. Rather disgusting."

John froze in mid-pour, slightly horrified.

"Oh! I'm so sorry! I know I shouldn't talk shop when you're - _we're_… trying to hold a civil conversation." Molly looked like she was going to die of shame. "I… I'll just be quiet."

"No, it's all right. I'm a doctor after all; I've seen and heard worse. Though, that does sound like a horrible day." John was trying his best to provide a relaxing atmosphere, and it worked for awhile as Molly took a deep breath and stopped fiddling with the hem of her sweater. Her cat came around and rubbed his cheek on her outstretched foot. She gave it an adoring glance before watching John pour some milk in his tea.

"So… you did Sherlock's autopsy." John said plainly, trying to figure out the best way to get as much information as possible without Molly falling to pieces.

"Y-yes. Never thought I'd ever…." She cut her sentence short as moisture started to bead in the corner of her eye. To distract herself she poured herself some tea, and slowly sipped it to calm down. "It was something I never thought I'd have to do."

"What I don't quite understand is…" John wanted to be delicate, but he was a tired man. "How you could have possibly performed Sherlock's autopsy if he's not dead?"

It was the wrong move and John paid for it. Molly jumped to her feet and spilled tea everywhere. The doctor had to dive to the side to avoid the scalding mixture. All the while, Molly was going through the entire spectrum of human emotion via interpretive dance.

"WHAT! I… _no_… that. I had my doubts… but I saw the body! I didn't think… "She put a hand to her mouth and started to pace her living room. "He's _alive_?"

John didn't know how to take her excessive reaction. In order for Sherlock to fake a suicide he would have _had_ to get Molly's help. How could he be alive and Molly not know?

"… you didn't know? You had _no idea_ that he was alive?" John rubbed the bridge of his nose. Things were supposed to be getting clearer, not more complicated. "Wait… did you in fact _do_ an autopsy?"

"No, of course not! I mean… oh… this is _ridiculous_." Molly sank back into her seat. Her shoulders slumped as she flung her legs out the way a child would when flopping into a bean-bag chair. She seemed relieved and frightened all at the same time, and she was trembling from head to toe.

"I think you have some explaining to do." John said tersely.

Molly took a shuddered breath before looking John in the eye and giving him a pleading expression. "You have to understand… I didn't know how big this would be. He usually only asks me for small favors, but he came to me… the day before he died…" She stared at the ceiling, recalling Sherlock's face. "He was white as a sheet. He said-"

"_Molly, I think I'm going to die_."

John closed his eyes, trying to imagine the scene. Sherlock would have been at the end of his rope. Molly would have been desperate to try and help him. Sherlock's ability to manipulate would have been at its finest.

"He gave me instructions… they weren't anything fancy. He said that I'd needed to play a part in something that I wasn't going to like, but I was the only one - _the only one_ that could make it work. I-" She was trying so hard not to cry, but tears slid down her cheeks as she tried to continue. "I agreed to do anything he asked of me."

"What did he tell you to do?"

Molly's fingers dug into the cushions of her chair. "He told me to be careful – not to tell anyone what I had done. He said that everything would work out in the end because you would fix it all."

"That's what I'm trying to do Molly, but I need you to tell me everything you know."

There was a moment where John thought that she was going to clam up and not tell him anything. He saw a gleam in her eyes that showed how stubborn she truly was, but then something gave way, and she looked like she had suddenly shed all of the worry and stress she'd been keeping locked up for months.

"He told me he was going to die, and that he didn't want bad people to get a hold of his body. He said that once his body was in my possession I was to watch over it. I thought he had gone mad! He wouldn't tell me when or where he would die. The more I asked questions the more he looked at me like I was some sort of idiot." She rubbed at the tears that were still forming in the corners of her eyes.

"Sherlock said that friends of his would bring him back to the morgue and that no one but me could handle his body – and even then, I wasn't supposed to touch him, just _transport_ him. He couldn't risk my fingerprints being found on the body or… something like that." Molly's voice grew fainter the more she talked, as though the narrative was draining all of her energy.

"After I got a hold of him, I was to put him in the second fridge from the right and leave it unlocked, because during the night some more of his people were going to steal him. I was to let them in and lock everything up after they had gone. Afterwards I was to fabricate a death certificate and an autopsy report, and when that was finished, I was to replace his body with a John Doe so that when the funeral director came in two days he'd have something to take. Once everything was completed, I was to fly to Holland for two months. Sherlock said that by the time I came back everything should have worked itself out…"

"I don't understand… some friends of his were to bring him to the morgue? Who were they?" John felt like he was back at his flat, taking down notes on a case – only he was playing Sherlock's role as well as his own. He wished he had brought his laptop.

"A doctor, two nurses, and some people off the street. They wheeled him in minutes after he jumped. It was such a backwards day… I didn't catch any of their names… which is stupid of me since I was just talking to that doctor earlier, when I was outside waiting for a text. I thought he was off duty since he was in a suit… but he brought his stethoscope with him. I thought it was odd…"

"Wait… why were you outside?"

"I was waiting for a text. My service provider isn't the best; I can't receive texts inside the morgue... so I go outside on my breaks." At John's bewildered look Molly explained, "Sherlock said that he was going to text me at about ten in the morning to finalize things."

"Finalize things?"

Molly closed her eyes, "Yeah… this bit won't make sense... but… I got his text and all it said was '_look up_', so I did, and there was Sherlock leaning over the edge of St. Bart's. He wouldn't even look at me. He dropped a rubber ball which I nearly missed catching, and then started laughing his head off. I almost didn't go back inside, but he jumped away from the edge and I thought for a moment that he was going to meet me in the morgue…"

Molly buried her face in her hands, "And he did… twenty minutes later… on a gurney… covered in blood."

Both of them looked away, remembering the appearance of the body in vivid detail.

"He was dead. You saw him _dead_." Things weren't adding up the way John wanted them to. Mycroft was certain that Sherlock was alive, whilst the coroner who was with him after the fall thought otherwise.

Molly nodded. "His head was a mess, but he had told me not to touch him. I didn't buy that fingerprint thing… since he knows I wear gloves, but I respected his wishes… even in death. He always has these plans… and he died for this one. I didn't want to ruin it. His eyes were wide open though John… just staring. I spent hours staring back…"

John ignored how creepy that sounded and focused on the case at hand. "You said he… he dropped a rubber ball? Can I see it?" It was the most out of place component of Molly's story, and probably the most important. Why would he choose to hand off such a thing in the middle of his final showdown with Moriarty? Was it the same rubber ball he was playing with back in the lab? He thought it odd then… but Sherlock did a lot of odd things.

"Yes." Molly said breathlessly as if she had been waiting for someone to take it off her hands for ages. She got up off her chair and went back into the kitchen. John could hear her rummaging around for something high up in her cupboards. "I hid it in case Sherlock's nosy brother wanted to take it. I wasn't sure I wouldn't blab about it… but I suppose I'm better at keeping secrets than I thought." She came back with the ball in her hands.

"There was a note inside of it." She squeezed the ball to open a deep slit that had been finely sliced across it, revealing a small hollow center. Within it was something black that was vaguely familiar, and wrapped around it was a piece of scrap paper. Molly took out the paper and handed it to John – it said:

"_Molly, this is meant for John. It is my life, or rather… what is left of it. Do **NOT** give it to him unless he asks for it. Take care of it until then. Thank you for everything - SH_"

The ink was smudged in several places. John suspected Molly had cried over it several times.

"You can keep this if you want." John handed the note back to her. She choked up as her fingers took the offer and exchanged it for the ball. She tried to say _thank-you_ but it was beyond her capabilities at that moment.

John opened the little rubber sphere while she recovered and removed what turned out to be the miniature camera that Sherlock had discovered in their flat months ago. John had wondered where the device had gotten to. He thought he saw Sherlock slip it into his pocket before he was arrested… but that night was a blur since that was also the night he had punched the superintendant in the face.

"It was running on a 1.5 volt battery… its long dead now though." Molly said through a case of the sniffles. "I still have that too if you want it."

"No… it's fine." John narrowed his eyes at the dead camera. It sent its data wirelessly, so anything it could have recorded would be on a computer somewhere. Probably not Sherlock's laptop, nor John's since both of those were confiscated the night the pair of them became fugitives. Then again, there was no safer place to hide information then at Scotland Yard.

He was going to have to talk to Lestrade.

"Thank-you for the tea Molly. You've been very helpful."

Molly bit her lip and fidgeted with her hands. "John… how do you know he's alive? I mean… even if he wasn't… well… there isn't anything chemically that can simulate death _that_ well..."

John pocketed the ball and camera. "There are just too many things that are out of place... and Sherlock is behind every one of them. I'm sure he thought of something. While I'm out, can you write down the descriptions of everyone that had helped wheel Sherlock into the morgue, as well as the ones that took him away during the night?"

"S-sure."

"You're doing the right thing Molly, don't worry. I'll sort this out and get back to you as soon as I can." The doctor gave her a smile before he turned and departed from the flat. He pulled out his phone as he began his walk towards one of the main roads. His head was too full of puzzle pieces that didn't quite fit in any arrangement his mind could construct. He just hoped that a phone call to an old friend would shed some light on the mystery.

.

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><p><strong>Author's Notes<strong>:

I swear I rewrote this chapter four times and I'm still not one hundred percent happy with it. Sorry if it's choppier than usual.

As for the current plot - The way I made Sherlock fake his suicide is a balance between intricacy and simplicity. I don't think he'd have Molly entirely '_in the know_' because, all though she has an underlying strength of character, if any of Moriarty's flunkies got wind that she may have helped Sherlock out she would topple like a house of cards. Afterall, Jim knows Molly and Sherlock are pals. Instead I think he would have opted for her to be a lampost to help guide John to accomplishing the task he set out for him; it's more mysterious, annoying and 'l_ess boring_' which is Sherlock in a nutshell.

Please **read and review**! You all stunned me with the amount of feedback I recieved last chapter! It's keeping this fic thriving. Point out any errors you find, and tell me your opinions on my take on the case (I know it isn't using the most mainstream theories, I'm trying to be creative with the clues left behind). OH! And the thing that I think Moffat was hinting at with his "_The fans are missing something blah blah..._" is the camera. They dedicate a whole scene to it and it _disappears_...


	6. Chapter Six

**Playing the Fool**

**.**

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><p>Chapter Six<p>

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><p>.<p>

The stains on the table did nothing to ease John's troubled mind. The more he stared at them, the more he felt like he was being manoeuvred into Sherlock's skin. Coffee rings and jam smears plagued several points on the lacquered surface, forming patterns that echoed the movements of whoever occupied John's table before him. Bread crumbs were scattered like footprints in the snow, outlining sweeping gestures and bad manners. Perhaps there was enough information here to profile someone - maybe if Sherlock were present... he would have.

John's lips twitched, but only for a moment. Sherlock's arrogance should have been listed as the eighth wonder of the world. Nothing would have stopped that man from showing off - _Nothing_. If he were here, sitting across from John in the greasy diner, he would have been running off lists of things John was doing wrong.

The disappointment the doctor imagined in the detective's eyes was haunting. Perhaps somewhere... Sherlock was more than just a ghost, and those eyes were depending on John to save him.

John probably had all the puzzle pieces for figuring out this 'supposed suicide' already, and was only lacking the insight to make it work together. What if Sherlock had overestimated his ability to solve this mystery? John knew the man well enough to know that he was incapable of lowering his intellect to think as a common man would. He squashed the fear nesting within his gut with anger. It was Sherlock's fault for being so bloody complicated. It was Sherlock's fault that the world thought he was dead! John didn't ask for this. He was almost finished mourning when this mess popped up. Now it was up to him to bring him back from the dead?

How very Sherlock.

John wanted to stop thinking about 'maybes' and 'what-ifs', his life was far too full of them now. There was no such thing as certainty anymore. All he wanted to do was return to a life that made sense – where dead meant _dead_.

"Yeh all roight hawn?"

John was startled out of his thoughts by a waitress who appeared at his table like an apparition. She was a rather plump woman with weathered skin and a bright smile. She was eyeing John with sympathy.

"I'm fine. May I have a cup of coffee?" It was definitely a coffee day today.

"Ney tee? Looks lie yeh could yeuse a cuppa." Her accent was hard to place and John had trouble trying to understand what she was asking. It was just one more frustration adding to an already tangled day.

"Aa… no. Just coffee… thanks."

"Foine wit' meh, id'lbeh comin' roight up darlin'" She toddled off, still grinning like she was having the time of her life just floating from table to table taking orders. It made John feel uncomfortable, but he tried not to show it as he went back to his thoughts.

It was strange that Molly didn't know whether or not Sherlock was alive. John wondered if the detective wanted it that way to protect everyone, or if it were merely part of the game. Just how many pawns did Sherlock have on his side of the chessboard? How did he manage to mobilize them all so quickly? There were no doctors and nurses in his homeless network – obviously; so who were the people entrusted to deliver his body to Molly? Maybe they were people who owed him favours? Characters that were indebted him from previous cases perhaps? John made a mental note to review Sherlock's files to see just how many nurses and doctors cropped up.

Molly was right about one thing though; no matter how clever Sherlock wanted to be, there was no drug that would simulate death; no Juliet potion existed. If there was a way Sherlock could have theoretically survived the fall by landing on something soft, or being caught, then he would have had to bloody himself up and set the scene in seconds. It would have been incredibly difficult.

John tried to recall the scene. There was the first story building in the way – garages from the look of it, which would have been crucial for any magic tricks Sherlock wanted to perform.

Then there was the cyclist he could have paid to hit John. That would have bought him a few extra moments - so it was possible, just… really unbelievable.

Then again that gurney appeared quickly, or did it? His sense of time was a mess. He could barely remember grabbing Sherlock's wrist, or if there was a pulse there. So many people were crowding him. It was the worst day of his life, and the thought of it being manufactured by his best friend was nearly too much to take.

"John..." came a voice the doctor recognized immediately as DI Lestrade's. The officer slipped into the booth across from him and took off his coat while John tried to pretend he had been grounded in reality during his greeting. "You look like hell."

"Yeah… had a bad couple of days. Sorry for calling you out here, I just needed to ask a favour."

The officer looked like he suddenly swallowed something sour. "Not sure how much I have left to give. My hands are tied since the Sherlock fiasco. I'm still taking some heat for it. Every file that ever had Sherlock's nose in it needs to be reviewed – not that I blame you mind. I think the media is on a power trip with the population lapping up this bullshit. Don't know how you survived it all…"

The waitress came around with John's coffee and asked the DI if he wanted anything. He ordered a coffee while John sipped at his.

"I've only been back at Baker Street for about four weeks… the only time the media got a hold of me was at the trial, and I can barely remember that."

"Mycroft bailed you out of that one."

"Yeah… he would have done. All he's good for is damage control – when he's not creating any of his own. That man deserves a guilty conscience." The bitterness came back in his voice, and John felt a bit of shame. Lestrade picked up on it but didn't comment.

"So what's this about a favour?"

John moved his mug aside to pull out the little black camera that had been in his pocket. He set it on the table top, away from anything wet or sticky.

"This was given to Molly by Sherlock minutes before he died. I'm assuming it's important – but I don't know why. I'm guessing it may be a recording of the confrontation between Sherlock and Moriarty, but I can't be certain."

"In other words – it may be a way to clear his name." Lestrade looked at the potential piece of evidence with intrigue. "Wireless… ? Oh, I see where you're going with this..." His voice trailed off with undertones of weariness.

"The signal was most likely sent to Sherlock's laptop - or to mine. I want to check to make sure."

Lestrade shied from the doctor. His eyes lowered and he stared at his coffee as if it were capable of giving him the words he wanted to say. John sighed, for he recognized the body language of an apology.

"You can't do that."

"I wish I could but-" The detective inspector set a fist on the table, "I'm under a lot of pressure at the moment John..."

John closed his eyes. Defeat washed over him and he found himself stuck. He couldn't ask Lestrade to risk his career - again. John was certain he could convince the inspector of the necessity of the laptop... and in the end obtain it; but such manipulation was what separated John from Sherlock or Mycroft. There were lines of decency that normal people just didn't cross. John would find another way. Perhaps it would be more difficult, but it was more aligned to his morals.

"It's all right Greg."

"I'm sorry-"

"No no. I understand completely. I should have seen this coming. You've stuck your neck out a thousand times before for us, so you've more than earned the right to say no." John put on the smile he only wore when trying to make an awkward situation more bearable for all parties involved. "I have just a small favour then, something that won't get you into anymore trouble."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Sally Donovan's number."

His morals wouldn't come into play when dealing with _her_.

.

John walked home from the diner feeling like he was slowly inching along the path Sherlock made for him. He hoped that things were unfolding the way that they were supposed to, since there was no guarantee that there was anything linked to the camera, or that Sherlock was in fact alive, or that Donovan would cave to John when he came to call. There was still the chance he was going insane. Would he recognize the signs? What scared him is he knew that he was being irrational in his belief, and yet there was little doubt ever since talking to Mycroft.

The doctor got to the familiar dark stained doorway that marked the entrance to 221B Baker Street. The sun had set and a chill was starting to gnaw at the exposed skin on his face and hands. He was properly tired now and prepared for a quick snack at Mrs. Hudson's before heading straight to bed. John unlocked the door and quietly entered the main landing, but paused when he realized none of the lights were on.

Mrs. Hudson had probably gone out for the evening, perhaps to play bingo or to visit a friend. This meant John was going to be eating his snack from out of a tin. He frowned at the thought. The prospect of something warm and homemade already seeded itself in his brain.

John was contemplating cooking something as he walked up the stairs to his flat. He was in the middle of trying to recall the last time he bought a can of tuna when a strange sense tickled the back of his mind. He might have heard something, or even saw something out of place... but John was certain he wasn't alone on the second floor.

Sneaking quietly through his own door, the ex-solder took a glance around the dimly lit room. He fumbled for the light-switch, but just before he went to flick it on he caught sight of a figure resting on the sofa.

Bright eyes met his from across the room and John froze in place. There were so many words that crossed his mind, but the first one's out of his mouth were:

"You're supposed to be dead."

.

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><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

So, I'm not very proud of this chapter... but I have to stop writing because both my 'u' ky and my 'e' key have stopped working and it is a very VeRY annoying task using ctrl-c, then ctrl-v to fill them in. Anyone know why certain lettrs will just spontaniously not work? Never had this happen before... it's so odd.

**Plas Rad and Rviw.** I'm going to leave that as is since it looks so damn funny. I've been absolutely adoring all of your comments. You have no idea how much I treasure them.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Playing the Fool**

**.**

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><p>Chapter Seven<p>

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><p>.<p>

Her eyes were like twin stars twinkling in the depths of shadow, and like celestial bodies, they offered a feeling of smallness, but no serenity. There was never anything resembling peace in a face that had crushed more than one political marriage; there was only fire and all components thereof – light, smoke and flame. John did everything in his power to not become the moth in this particular metaphor.

"You're supposed to be dead."

He turned on the lights to let her bathe in its florescent glow. The curves he remembered were still there, but she hadn't dressed up to show them off. The doctor didn't need Sherlock around to know that Irene Adler was still on the run. Her head tilted coyly as she sat back in the sofa and shifted her legs – almost as if she wanted to attract John to them through the simple motion. She was wearing lacy black leggings underneath a scarlet skirt. John caught onto her game early, and made sure that the only place he let his eyes roam was her unpainted face.

"I think the grim reaper is losing his touch – not that I'm complaining."

That smile again. The devil's smile. Even if John couldn't see her lips, he knew he would have imagined the expression anyway. He raised one eyebrow with uncertainty.

"Sherlock's doing?"

Irene smirked and looked out the window. "Saved my life. I'm trying to return the favour."

John toyed with his fingers, trying not to let them curl into fists. "You came too late."

"Did I?" There was the hint of a laugh in her voice and John knew instinctually that Irene was on the same page he was; Sherlock Holmes was most likely breathing. All thoughts of madness vanished.

"Tell me what you know." John said with a bite to his words. Getting information from a dominatrix wasn't going to be easy.

Irene sighed and relaxed her normally prim posture. "I know that you're being watched." She motioned to John's chair in an attempt to get the doctor to sit, but he remained standing. John wanted her to know that she did not control the situation. Irene could have cared less.

"I've been trying to meet with you for the last two days, but slipping past your surveillance is very annoying. Between Mycroft and Moriarty I'd be surprised if you could shower without eyes on you." The purr in the comment sent a warm shiver through John's abdomen. Irene's eyes looked him up and down as if she knew the effect she just caused.

"Moriarty is dead." He said it with finality, hoping that it was true. _Him_ being alive wasn't a development he had been expecting.

"I wouldn't count on it. He was Sherlock's equal - perhaps even his superior. I would assume that if Sherlock is alive, so is his nemesis. I have a feeling that both men wanted to cut out the commonwealth to stage their own private war without interference." Irene got up and smoothed out her skirt. "Moriarty knew Sherlock was playing with his gloves on because he was working in the confines of the law. James wanted a fair fight – away from the ordinary. The only way they could do it was to stage their deaths. Simple."

"Sherlock needs people. He's rubbish on his own." Sherlock needed someone to stop him from going too far.

Irene walked up to John and caressed his shoulder as she wandered into the kitchen. "So is Moriarty. Both of them need puppets to set the stage, but this is more than just a show now John. This is real. Moriarty thinks he's found his equal and he wants to put him to the ultimate test. He _owes_ Sherlock a fair fight without distractions. Now there is nothing that can hold either of them back. They've descended into hell and only one of them is going to crawl back."

John paused to try and rephrase the half-formed question on his tongue so that it sounded more tactful than it did in his head, but after a second he realized that tact wasn't necessary with Miss Adler. "What does any of this have to do with you?"

The woman poured herself a glass of water from the tap. She held it up to the light before taking a few sips and leaning against the counter to play casual. "Nothing actually. To be honest, I'm just a little disappointed that Sherlock didn't pay me a visit when he disappeared." There was a subtle pout to her lips that upset John, but he didn't know why. "I did a bit of misbehaving to figure out that Moriarty was still in play and figured out the rest on my own."

"Let me get your story straight. You_ knew_ Sherlock was alive, so you poked your nose about and found out Moriarty didn't bite it as well? So now you come to me with the information? Why? How did you even know Sherlock was alive in the first place?"

"I knew the funeral director."

"Let me guess... you knew what he _liked_."

She put the empty glass of water in the sink and grinned. "Aren't we familiar now! You're wit seems sharper than I remember Dr. Watson. Sherlock's rapid exit from your life must have left a noticeable scar. I'd be careful. Sherlock might not recognize you when you come for him."

"What do you mean...?"

The question rolled off Irene like a raindrop over an umbrella and she adopted some playful body language.

"I'm going to have to stay here for the night since I can't leave until you go to work tomorrow and take your spies with you. I've made myself a bed in Sherlock's room... I hope you don't mind." She turned away and started to wander in that direction.

John followed her, suddenly angrier than he had ever been in the last few weeks. He had enough of this cryptic bullshit. Just once he wanted to be treated respectfully and not toyed with. He wanted this entire affair to end _now_.

"No - stop right there and turn around."

Something in the doctor's voice made Irene comply as if she were held at gunpoint. She halted and looked over her shoulder with an expression of surprise. John was practically shaking in aggravation.

"I get it. You, Sherlock and Moriarty are geniuses. _Congratulations_. You three might be able to talk in riddles and leave little love notes to each other in complicated ciphers or metaphors or _god-knows-what_; but I'm not part of the club. I can't wow others by being captain obvious. I can't understand the twisted things that come out of your overzealous minds. All I can do is stand in the background and blunder about at the outskirts of your intellectual drivel, hoping that the light bulb will come on at the right moment so that I don't look like an idiot – which is _never_ by the way." John took a deep breath. He was ranting, but he didn't care. All the frustrations from the last few days were pouring out of his mouth now and he couldn't stop it if he wanted to.

"I need help putting it all together and for you to actually be _useful_ for once. I need to know what actually happened the day Sherlock jumped, and what it means. I need to know what Sherlock is thinking... and I need... I _need_ to understand just what the hell is going on. So if you could please cut to the part where you stop leading me on... that would be fantastic!"

His words made the silence afterwards almost tangible. Irene stared at John like she had witnessed a particularly entrancing train wreck. The doctor stood like a rock - stubborn and irritated; waiting for the moment the woman would come to her senses.

"Sherlock knows he's rubbish at doing things alone..." She whispered to the tension between them.

"_I'd be lost without my blogger_" Long forgotton words mixed with a quick smiles as Sherlock flipped up his coat collar and walked out of the flat.

Why did the small memories always hit John the hardest?

Irene lowered her eyes to the hardwood floor and the worn rug that adorned it. "And I wasn't kidding when I said they had descended into hell John. Hell is the only word appropriate for the brand of underworld they both have been living in for the past few months. The reason I came here-"

She couldn't seem to bring herself say it, but not because of sentiment. There was something else that was bothering her and John couldn't place it.

"He... _trusts you_. You - of all people John. I tried to worm my way into that man's heart with _all_ of my cunning, and failed, because I didn't know that someone else had tread there before me."

"Oh here we go _again_. I'M _NOT_ GAY!"

"You don't have to be John. You were a soldier. You were trained to throw your life in front of a bullet for queen and country, but off the battlefield... you do it for Sherlock. That, Dr. Watson, is _telling_."

"Oh _please_-"

"You know what hell is like John! You wouldn't hesitate for _one second_ to follow Sherlock into it." Irene stared John right in the eye as if daring him to tell her otherwise. "And he _knows_ that John. He knows."

"_Biding my time. Knew you would show up._" The way Sherlock looked at him that night, as if John Watson was the most fascinating man in existence, it thrilled him. He had hardly known Sherlock for 48 hours, and yet he shot a man in his defence. It wasn't even a man in a uniform, or a man holding a gun. It was an elderly cabbie in a sweater armed with nothing but a pair of bottles.

It had been enough to warrant a bullet with his name on it.

"You will find him John. I'm only warning you that you will be a distraction for Sherlock in the deadly tête-à-tête he's facing when you do." Irene commented as she slipped into Sherlock's room. There was nothing left to say. There was a subtle understanding that was just now settling in the space between them. "Good night Dr. Watson."

John merely stared at the closing door and retreated back into his mind. Now there were too many perspectives in his head regarding Sherlock's death. Every person he talked to just made the situation worse by adding motives that may or may not exist. Everything was speculation at this point - and the topic was the mystery of Sherlock Holmes. No matter how good the world might have thought John was, _no one_ could solve Sherlock.

He was about to stalk off to the living room and go through Sherlock's hard files when he heard the doorbell ringing from the hallway. After a quick glance at the clock John wondered who the hell would be visiting this late, and if it were necessary to pick up his gun on the way downstairs incase it was someone unfriendly.

Thinking statiscally, he took it because between Sherlock and Irene it was most likely some manner of nasty person. He slunk down the steps like a thief in the night, hoping that he wasn't going to get a shot gun to the face, or kidnapped - _again_. He mustered up his courage as he approached the door to look through the peep hole with baited breath, but instantly relaxed and lowered his pistol when he saw Molly fidgeting on the other side.

She nearly jumped when John opened the door suddenly and let her inside.

"I'm sorry for dropping in unannounced, but I e-mailed you twice before I realized you probably don't have your laptop back from the Yard... and I don't have your number... and you haven't checked your blog in ages..."

"Yeah... sorry, I'm a bit hard to get a hold of. Um..." John had no idea why Molly was suddenly at his doorstep, and he didn't want to invite her up for tea because Irene might wander out and then there would be some awkward introductions. On top of that there was the gun in his hands...

Molly provided an easy solution to the situation by handing John a piece of paper with a nervous smile. "These are the descriptions you asked for. They're not the best... but I don't think they're that bad either. I sometimes have to do them for unclaimed bodies that pop up on my list..." She stopped herself before she started to ramble. "Anyway, I have date tonight and thought I'd drop this by personally since it wasn't too much trouble."

"Perfect Molly, thank-you. This will be very helpful." He took the list and gave it a quick once over as Molly turned around and headed back out the door. But before she could even take the first step towards the street, John's arm shot out and he grabbed her by the shoulder. "Molly, tell me about the first two people on the top of this list." He wagged the paper back in her direction with some vigor. "The doctor and the nurse."

Molly looked stunned at the blanched expression on John's face but complied easily. "The doctor was middle aged, wearing a suit... had tawny hair and there was a nurse with him both times I met him. They were the first ones I thought of since they were directing Sherlock's 'abduction'. Once the doctor had called the nurse 'Matty' which I thought might help identify her if the description wasn't good enough."

"_Oh, that reminds me, Matty and I were wondering if you played poker._"

John let Molly's shoulder go. He folded the piece of paper she had given him and stowed it in his pocket. "I see... thank-you again. I hope your date goes well." He was talking far too quietly, as if he had detached himself from the situation at hand. Molly opened her mouth to voice her concern but John was already half way up the stairs. She shrugged and left 221B thinking about the candlelit dinner she was going to be attending.

Up in the flat John was sitting in his chair staring into the darkness yet again.

It was Doctor Spencer's turn to shed some light on Sherlock's suicide.

.

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><p><strong>Author's Notes<strong>:

So I think I did better this time around. A nice longish chapter! I had to fetch myself a new keyboard (which I'm still not used to) in order to fix that 'e' and 'u' problem. I'm aiming to try and wrap this story up in ten chapters, but knowing me it'll probably stretch itself out into twelve like my other finished fics. Thank-you all for the wonderful reviews. I always log on in the morning like a kid at Christmas to read them before work/school. Sometimes I read them out loud to my roommates who think I'm an absolute nut for staying up late at night just because:  
>"I have to get this chapter up or I'll disappoint them!"<br>"Who?"  
>"My adoring fans! They will be expecting it~!"<br>It is at this point where they debate whether or not I have gone insane. I don't care. I will forego sanity just to know that their are people out there who don't think what I write is crap (it is, but at least it's entertaining crap). **Please Read and Review!**


	8. Chapter Eight

**Playing the Fool**  
><strong>.<strong>

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><p>Chapter Eight<p>

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><p>.<p>

John found himself once again in the Spencer's living room, but this time there were no smiles and no social niceties such as baked goods and work related conversation. There were only hard stares and the feeling that something had gone terribly wrong somewhere, but neither party could agree on when. Samuel Spencer was sitting with his body taut, his wife at his side appearing anxious. John was sitting across from them with three pieces of paper spread out on the coffee table.

"You took his body. Why?"

It was obvious Samuel's head was trying to churn out a decent reply, but John pushed one of the paper's he had brought closer to the agitated doctor.

"You said that you went to University together. Oxford? Cambridge? He had brief stints at both from what his brother tells me, but never at UCL – which from this transcript I obtained, is where you came from." John retracted the paper to push forth another that was the one Molly had handed him last night.

"And this is an eyewitness's statement putting you at the scene of Sherlock's death, and then again at his... _apprehension_. Care to explain yourself?"

Dr. Spencer looked as if the world were collapsing around him. Silently he gripped Matilda's hand and adopted a pleading look, but John just shook his head and clenched his teeth. "No? Still not coming up with a story? Then I'll spin one myself then."

He took back Molly's work and brandished the last of the documents. "This letter is from Sherlock's collection. Do you recognize the letter Samuel? You should. It's in your writing."

The letter was folded many times as if someone had kept it in a wallet for quite some time. It refused to lay flat on the wooden surface between them, but the writing across it was in the doctor's untidy scrawl. It was addressed to 'Mr. Holmes' and it outlined the details of a case John had never heard of before.

"Now, I'll ask again. Why did you take his body?"

"John, I'm sorry... but I needed the money. Moriarty wanted his body and I knew I could get it-"

"Don't."

Silence punctuated the word. Sam Spencer froze in mid explanation, fearful that John might throw a fit and try to deck him across the table. Instead, the ex-soldier pointed his finger at Dr. Spencer like it was a gun.

"Don't you _dare_ try to lie to me _twice_. You were recruited by _Sherlock_, not by Moriarty. The coroner on duty at the time was told, also by Sherlock_, that_ you were coming. Give me the truth Samuel, or by god I will fetch someone from Scotland Yard and have this conversation in one of their interrogation rooms."

It was at this point Matilda let go of her husband's hand to stand. "This is quite enough! Tell him Sam. He knows enough now that Sherlock would understand." She turned towards the kitchen, but hesitated as she tilted her head to address John. "I'm going to make some tea... if that is all right with you John. You're going to need it. It might be a long explanation."

John nodded and allowed Mrs. Spencer to leave the room. He glanced to Dr. Spencer with a look of impatience.

"All right. Fine. Sherlock's going to murder me for this and the irony is no one will be able to investigate it." He chuckled darkly, if only to mask his duress, before he leaned forwards and rested his arms on his knees.

"You did your research correctly. I never did meet Sherlock in University; I only met him three years ago when I was in a spot of trouble. He fixed it for me, but the cost was out of my league. He said that he didn't care about the money and that it wasn't everyday he had a doctor indebted to him. He proposed that if there were ever a situation where he needed some discrete medical care for himself - or an ally, I was to be available. I agreed whole-heartedly to ease my conscience. I hadn't heard from him for years. Occasionally I'd have some bum off the street show up at my door with a bullet wound and Sherlock's name ... but I hadn't seen him personally. That was until he rang me four months ago, asking for the favour to end all favours."

"He wanted you to help him fake his suicide." John wanted to cut to the chase.

"Not just that Dr. Watson. So much more." Sam seemed like he wanted to drop dead right then and there. "I couldn't refuse him... but damned if I wanted to. He told me that if I went along with the plan he'd wire me enough money to start my own practice. I'd be free of suspicion, free to do what I love and free to live the life I always wanted... but _only_ if I did _exactly_ what I was instructed. I'm violating that now just by telling you this." Spencer grimaced and rubbed his hands together fretfully. "I'm a reliable man. I have never broken my word before now."

"Tell me exactly what he told you." John felt like the knot he was toying with had finally loosened. He was seconds from the truth he had been waiting for.

Doctor Spencer took in a steady breath of air and closed his eyes to better clear his head. Matilda came in with some hot buttered scones and a tea set soon after. She poured them all a cup and set a coaxing hand on her husband's back.

"He said that I needed to be at St. Bart's in the morning during the shift change. I was to bring anything that would make the average layman identify me as a doctor, as well as six shots of Romazicon and ten milligrams of Lorazepam." He wrinkled his nose at this - as did John. Those items alone explained why Sherlock appeared dead at the scene and in the morgue. Hell, from that dosage Sherlock might not have been faking.

"Once at the hospital, I was to meet at the bus stop where there would be a man dressed in a tan jacket and a woman in black waiting for me. They were there to explain everything – what I needed to do... when I needed to do it... etc. From what I gathered, there were a total of eight people that were going to be involved in our part of the process. Everyone else we encountered had to be distracted if they got too involved. Two of the people were RNs; there was one other doctor besides myself, and the two I was referred to were average working class citizens by appearance. The last of the eight were dressed up vagrants in emergency response jackets. I was worried about the part they'd play." Sam started to tear apart a scone as he talked.

"The drill was supposed to be simple. Sherlock was going to jump into the back of a truck filled with bags – the contents of which I have no idea. He was supposed to roll out and make it look like he had some serious head trauma. That was Frank's job. He was the man in the tan jacket. Frank made sure he was properly bloodied up and laid out believably before we were to arrive at the scene. The two nurses, myself and the other doctor ran over as bystanders started to crowd around. Controlling them was simple until _you_ got there and started to push through the nurses. That was a bit of a nightmare. I was panicking because the moment you were trying to get to Sherlock was the moment I was injecting him with enough Lorzapam to kill him."

He took a shaky sip of his tea and continued the narrative as a shadow passed over John's face. He was reliving the morning his best friend severed all contact with him. Samuel hoped that John would forgive him.

"By the look of it, he had already ingested something previously. His eyes were running and unresponsive to light. I was certain I was murdering him, but the plan had to keep going or everything would be for nothing. The vagrants came out with the stretcher and we rushed Sherlock into the alleyway. Apparently there should have been enough time to check him over and see if the overdose was going to be fatal before reaching the morgue, but I was shaking so hard that it was difficult to take his pulse. We were supposed to leave him for a few hours with the coroner. I wasn't sure he would make it. I had never done anything like this before. His blood pressure was through the floor and I don't even know if he was breathing when we wheeled him in."

"We were instructed to make as much noise as we could when we arrived in the morgue - Sherlock's orders. We were supposed to scare the daylights out of the coroner. I don't think it was really necessary since she was in a right proper state when she caught sight of the body. I was shocked she even managed to stay standing. I wanted to keep an eye on Sherlock since I was worried the coroner would faint and everything would be ruined, but my next task was to help throw a rather random canister of gas on the gurney and take it to a drop point while the woman was distracted. It was the oddest part of the affair, but at that point I would have probably danced a jig if it ended the whole ordeal." Dr. Spencer noticed that this new development piqued John's interest. "The other doctor said that Sherlock planted the gas earlier, and that it was a faulty container so I shouldn't breathe too deeply around it."

"Was there a label on the canister?" John asked, wondering if he had guessed the contents already.

"No... nothing. It was a fairly odourless gas too... since I'm sure I would have caught a whiff of it dragging that thing around. I doubted it was dangerous. I was thinking it might be nitrous oxide."

"Most likely not, but continue..." It was probably the same drug that John himself had been exposed to at Baskerville. If Sherlock planted it there, Molly would have been subjected to it for long enough that its effects would have kicked in full force. Sherlock told her that he was going to die, and the nightmare became a reality. Molly knew death like no other, she would have recognized the details of life easily... but the gas ruined her senses. She only saw what Sherlock wanted her to see.

It was amazing what detail Sherlock put into this plan of his. He probably left the canister there the night he surprised her in the morgue.

"Eight hours later we were to come for the body. This was to allow time for friends and family to identify him, and for the coroner to process him. She stored him in a particular fridge where Matilda and I were to fetch him with the help of those two homeless men and a nurse that worked at the hospital. We got him into my mother's van, and I gave him the Romazicon. One shot every half hour from that point on, till he came out of the coma. He was not in a good state. He was babbling nonsense and he started to seizure. It was a wonder I didn't drive into anything on the way home."

John was trying to imagine the scene. He couldn't fathom Sherlock putting himself into such a state, then depending on others to fix it. It just wasn't like him.

"Matilda had set up a bed for him in our guest room. I rigged up an IV from some of my old medical equipment from my school days and started to nurse him back to health. I think it was a whole month before he could even walk properly. He doesn't remember that month, but we do."

Matilda smiled faintly. "He kept reading the newspapers being surprised that the date had changed. He was worried about you though. He deduced the date of his funeral and went to see you. I accompanied him just in case he collapsed. He watched you for a long time John." The woman had small tears in her eyes as if she were empathizing several months too late.

"When we got back, that's when he told us to take care of you. He magically produced all of this money for Sam to start his practice. We spent about two weeks finalizing and transferring patient files and finding a decent receptionist..."

"A week after that he just disappeared, leaving a note to remind us to watch over you." Sam added, his voice trailing off as Matilda ended the narrative for him.

"And that's the day Hilda went out and hunted you down to try and get you to help out Sam at the clinic. From that point onwards, everything returned to some semblance of normality. We haven't seen Sherlock in around three months."

John sat quietly on the couch and let the information pool in his mind until it settled and he could reflect upon it.

"He is most definitely alive then." His voice was faint, and very relieved.

"Yes."

.

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><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

There. Done. I dreading writing this part since it's just a lot of talking and it reveals the details of the suicide (which are not what I think happened, it is just one theory that had everything I wanted incorporated) Personally I think Mycroft is in the know and that there was some other trick, perhaps similar, involved. Now I can focus on the '_why_' bit, instead of the how. Sorry for dragging you though the wee points! **Please read and review!** You've all been so incredibly good to me. I have a day off tomorrow, so if I get enough feedback I might post the next chapter in 24 hours~!


	9. Chapter Nine

**Playing the Fool**

**.**

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><p>Chapter Nine<p>

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><p>.<p>

He knew it was a fever the moment he woke up and felt the sweat beading on his forehead. He wasn't surprised; it was only a matter of time before his immune system faltered from all the mental shocks received during the last week. Somewhere out there Sherlock Holmes was walking about while everyone who had ever cared about him – a number which John could count on one hand – was left with nothing but a painful memory. John knew now _how_ he did it, but as Mycroft stated from the very beginning, there was no leads as to _why_.

With a long drawn out sigh, the doctor slid out of bed and stumbled his way to the bathroom. He took some ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet and gave the digital thermometer a hard look. Last time he saw the device, Sherlock had it sticking out of a severed head; the memory made John decide that his fever was 'not so bad', and that the thermometer could stay where it was.

His morning rituals took longer than usual considering he paused every time he heard a strange noise coming from the common room. Irene Adler was still an active presence within the flat, and sometimes John would fall prey to the illusion that it was Sherlock stalking about. Now that John knew the man was alive, every thought was drawn to the concept of his return. Multiple scenarios unfolded within John's mind - more than one of them resulted in John making a mental note to keep the First Aid kit well stocked and his gun out of reach. Sherlock was going to get an earful when they finally met - the only question was whether or not it was before or _after_ the inevitable punch to the face.

Perhaps that is what made the man linger. If the roles were reversed, John would dread returning after months of separation. There was just nothing one could say to return everything back to normal. Was Sherlock wrong in faking his own death and leaving John grief-struck and clueless? Knowing Sherlock, there were probably reasons John couldn't even fathom keeping the man from coming home.

That led his thoughts to the camera - the key item placed in Molly's hands. John thought that once he bullied Donavan into releasing Sherlock's laptop (not to mention his own), things would begin to make more sense. He expected clarity; yet when he sat down and slowly dredged through the abundant data stored on the device, John couldn't see how the footage from the camera could have been stored in Sherlock's hard drive without the meddling folks at the Yard discovering it. He was missing something. Something Sherlock wouldn't have thought he'd miss.

He found himself staring into his own reflection like a dead-man, glassy eyed expression making him wonder just how ill he really was. There was a sickly sheen across his fore-head and a lethargy that made itself known in every move the doctor made. He didn't notice Irene leaning against the doorway of the bathroom until she cleared her throat and attracted John's attention.

"You do _not_ look good." Always the impish grin. The smile that rubbed John the wrong way. It was like she caught him doing something he shouldn't. John took half a minute to formulate a reply, feeling as dumb as drugged cattle.

"I don't _feel _good either." He wasn't going to be making any snappy come-backs today. He brushed past Irene to make his way into the kitchen. He wasn't hungry, but he knew that he needed something to keep up his energy if he wanted to solve this mystery anytime soon.

He didn't expect Irene to follow him like a curious cat. "Fever?" She mentioned casually, moving to the corner of the room as if she were just a talkative part of the background. John noticed that she was wearing Sherlock's dressing gown – and nothing else. Maybe _that_ explained the fever.

"A mild one." He put a couple of slices of bread in the toaster and took out the jam. "Why are you still here?"

Irene's smile became wider. "Do I need a reason? I would have thought you'd like me to stay; perhaps my presence will entice Sherlock to come back to you sooner?" She sighed at her own words and drew circles into the counter top with her fingertips. "Though we both know it's not _me_ he lusts after."

"If you are insinuating..." John began before he realized Irene was just trying to make him angry. He clung to a butter knife as if it would help reinforce the idea he wanted to express – which was to piss off.

She laughed then - loud and sincerely. "I love how your mind goes there first of all places John." She filled the kettle to make herself a cup of tea. "It's most _fascinating_."

"How many times-" No, he was playing her game now. "N_ever _mind! I don't have the time for this ridiculousness." John was frustrated. He wanted to sling a snappy comment back at the woman in his defence, but there was none coming. He felt like he was fighting in a straight-jacket. There was nothing at all romantic between the him and Sherlock - why then, was it so blatantly obvious to the both of them, but not to the rest of the world?

"We're best friends." There was nothing but sincerity in his words.

"Tell me John. Who drew the line?" The woman withdrew a mug from the cupboard. It was difficult for John to keep his eyes on her face, since Irene didn't mind exposing the more hidden regions of a lady's form with every reach of her long ivory arms. "It wasn't you, was it?"

John closed his eyes in a long drawn out blink to clear his thoughts. "Look. This is a topic that is really none of your concern... which is funny considering that the people it _should _concern couldn't care less, so why don't we drop it? Better yet, you could just leave Baker street all together and give me a little peace and quiet."

"I threaten you."

There was always the tone of absolute certainty with Irene. Out of everything she did – manipulate people, sell herself, ruin lives - the statements she could pin on people bothered John the most. With Sherlock it was a deduction based on fact; but with Irene it was drawing conclusions from more internal tells. She worked with emotions, a language John himself was fluent in – and it unnerved him.

"I'm not scared of you, not in the least."

John had his own smile that was like a guillotine. It ended conversations with a sharpness that left everyone in the room uncomfortable. The doctor calmly took his toast, the knife and the jam into the living room, where he sat down at the table and fired up his laptop.

Irene's eyes followed him the entire time. It took an hour of John puttering about on the internet, before the woman attempted to talk with John again. This time she was fully clothed in something surprisingly conservative. She sat across from him in Sherlock's usual place, her hands caressing the detective's laptop with interest. "Do you mind if I try and find that footage for you?"

John looked up, shocked that she'd even suggest it. There was a portion of him that wanted to deny her access to anything that belonged to Sherlock, for she was beginning to make a habit out of surrounding herself in anything that belonged to the man. Yet, if anyone could root out a secret in his possessions... it would be '_The Woman_'.

"Why not?" He said simply. There was mixed feelings about allowing the action, but he cast them aside as he went back to reading a month old e-mail from Sarah. It was filled with heart-felt condolences that struck John in an odd way. It was strange going over the dozens of sympathetic messages he had received when he knew that Sherlock was alive. It felt wrong somehow.

His morality took a back seat when he noticed that Irene was getting more and more irritated at the lack of information she was uncovering from Sherlock's computer. John felt oddly proud that his flatmate was causing someone _else_ discomfort from '_beyond the grave_'. The feeling came to a crescendo the moment a clip of Rick Astley's _Never Gunna Give you Up_" started to play through the speakers. It only got through a couple of lyrics before Irene slammed the screen shut and looked at the laptop as if it insulted her.

John was struggling not to laugh. "Was that what I thought it was?"

The woman flew from the chair in a tantrum. "If I had known that he would resort to such juvenile tricks I wouldn't have even bothered!"

"Found nothing then?" He knew he shouldn't have sounded so cheerful, but it wasn't everyday you witnessed a rick-roll from a dead man. He watched as the woman seethed silently and threw herself on the sofa. John's smile faded the moment he noticed that Sherlock usually did the exact same thing when something was bothering him.

"I doubt we'll ever find it. It's not on your laptop I assume?"

"No, and if he wanted me to find it, I'm certain it would be something simple. I'm not exactly techno-savvy." John leaned back in his chair. His headache was returning, but he didn't feel like he had to energy to fetch himself another pill. "I can't think of anything else... but there must be..."

Irene stared at the ceiling. "Could he have sent it to your phone?"

"I would have received it right away." John's forehead furrowed. He was trying to think if there was anything else he owned that could be accessed wirelessly; but the laptop and phone were as gadgety as he got. Perhaps he sent to someone else, like Mrs. Hudson or Irene?

John looked to Irene, wondering if Sherlock would involve her in all this. It seemed unlikely. Besides, her phone would be in Mycroft's possession –

No wait. _It wasn't_.

He had given Irene's phone to Sherlock himself. It could still work, couldn't it? It was wiped of everything, but put a battery in it and it could theoretically store any information sent to it – if the number still worked.

The doctor got to his feet and immediately tripped over himself getting to Sherlock's desk by the window. It was where the detective kept some of his most important possessions that weren't in the digital realm. Irene was at his side in seconds, she smelled a conclusion the moment John left his chair.

"Onto something?"

"Your phone, the one you used to nearly crush the country's economy." John said, fumbling about the drawer with a frown. It was locked and he had no idea where the key might be. "It's the only other thing that would work."

Irene moved John aside. "Here, let me. It's an old style lock..." She nicked a paper-clip from a stack of papers and bent it to suit her needs. "I could open these in primary school."

She may have failed at extracting information from a computer, but the drawer yielded to Irene's whims and she had it open in seconds. John rifled through it just as quickly, but his heart settled back into place as he realized that the phone was missing. It was another dead end.

John ran a hand through his hair and realized his fingers were trembling. He made himself sit down before he fell down. Today was just not his day. "I don't even know if I should waste my time even looking for it. How am I to know where the hell he put it, or even if the camera sent it to it... or even if the footage taken means anything?" He flailed his arms about before turning into molasses in his chair. This entire affair could just be one giant wild goose chase designed to keep the doctor busy while Sherlock ran about doing _god-knows-what_.

"I'll check the boxes in his room..." Irene offered, sensing John's irritation. She left him to deal with it on his own. The probability of the phone cropping up in Sherlock's boxed possessions was slim to none and they both knew it.

Once again John was sitting in his empty living room feeling as if the world had abandoned him. He stared at Sherlock's vacant seat with a bit of contempt. "It's your fault I'm like this..." He said out loud, shocked that he would talk to himself like some common lunatic. Maybe his fever was worse than he thought. "Running me ragged and you're not even _here_..."

He started to drift, wrapping himself in the hurt and hate that seemed to follow the recollections of his eccentric flatmate. Memories started to pour themselves into the forefront of John's mind. Most of them were recent occurrences – meeting Irene and the mess Moriarty created. How did one man attract so much trouble? The moment John thought it, the answers came floating to him in a wave of all the tart things the detective had ever said. Sherlock was the sort to make enemies as easy as John made friends; they were two sides of the same coin.

Then why couldn't he figure this part of his puzzle? Where was the bloody camera-phone?

"_Safest place I know._" Sherlock's smooth baritone injected itself into John's head and spun there in the endless haze, like smoke in a still room.

John woke with a start. He felt terribly disorientated, and for a moment he had no idea what he was doing in the living room. Irene came around with a concerned look on her face. "You all right? You mumbled something..."

"Mrs. Hudson. I think Mrs. Hudson might have the phone." John mumbled, sounding half-asleep. He pulled himself up from his chair and teetered over to the door. His fever had definitely worsened in the short nap he had taken, and the stairs down to Mrs. Hudson's flat looked daunting.

Irene raised an eyebrow and looked from John to the steps. "You are not going to-"

John ignored her and plotted downstairs, his hand gripping the railing firmly. Irene couldn't follow since she was supposed to be a ghost, but it didn't stop her from peering worriedly from the doorway. Her concern was for nothing, since John made it safely to the main floor and knocked on his landlady's door with vigor.

It felt like ages before it opened. Mrs. Hudson's queer face eventually arrived in the widening crack of the door, and appraised John like a mother would a difficult child.

"What happened to you! A stiff breeze could knock you over!" Immediately a hand flew to John's forehead and she practically dragged the man inside. "A fever? You're a doctor! You shouldn't even be out of bed! Sit down and I'll get you something to drink... you need fluids!" She dashed about, fetching John a glass of water before he could even take two steps. Her mother-henning was annoying and flattering at the same time.

"I'm fine, just in need of a good rest is all. I need to talk to you about a missing camera-phone."

Mrs. Hudson's eyebrows knitted together as she digested what John said. "A camera-phone? I don't know much about that. I haven't seen Sherlock's phone since he..." She paused, unsure of where she wanted that sentence to go._ "_Well... I don't _think_ I've seen one."

John sipped his water, his hope slowly deflating. "Did you move anything in the flat? Anything at all?"

At this her face lit up and she ran off to some corner of her flat like an excited child. "Oh wait! I remember now! I was dusting the mantle piece months ago... and I thought to myself that it was a good opportunity to get rid of that damned skull." There came the sound of rummaging though trinkets or some sort of storage container. "But I just... I couldn't bear to give it away... or destroy it. There was something so... Sherlock about it. When I picked it up from the mantle, this fell out of it."

She came back bearing the camera-phone and John let out a sigh of relief. "That's it!"

"Good thing I remembered. I thought it might be important, because of that... well, you know - that problem with the man who fell on my bins... so I kept them together." She handed it over, glad to be useful.

"You're a saint Mrs. Hudson!" He finished his glass of water and patted the woman on the back before heading back out the door.

"You better take care of yourself John..."

He gave her a small smile before making his way back up to his flat. He was ready to pass out the moment he reached his door. He was completely out of breath from only two flights of stairs. Irene was waiting, her eyes peering hesitantly over John's armchair. "Did you find it?"

"Yes." He puffed as he held up the device and made his way over to the table. With a weary 'thump' he planted himself down in the wooden chair and turned the phone on. Immediately it began to chime, alerting the user that it had received a message while it was dormant. John accessed it with baited breath and turned up the volume so that everything could be heard through the grain of the poor-quality camera.

For once it was exactly what he thought it was. Footage of Moriarty and Sherlock the morning that their lives had 'ended'. It was at a terrible angle... and there was only a sliver of actual picture for it looked like Sherlock had the device enclosed in his fist before he transferred it into his pocket several minutes into the recording. The conversation was clever, with Sherlock dumbing himself down to get more damning information from his nemesis. How did Moriarty not suspect that Sherlock was leading him to unveil everything he has so cleverly weaved up till now? Perhaps villains really did have the need to monologue. If there was a verbal equivalent of chess, John supposed that it would be very similar to what he was hearing.

The footage ended with Sherlock's fingers deftly inserting the camera into the rubber ball, silencing it as it started it's journey to Molly. The battery wasn't sufficient to keep it operational past that, and the clip ended, making John feel rather hollow. There was nothing about what was said from the moment Sherlock jumped back from the edge, to the moment John and him had their last conversation.

Irene was staring at the blank screen with an unreadable expression on her face. John turned and tilted his head somewhat, expecting her to say something. She didn't and shifted her gaze to the window instead. There was something in that simple motion, but John was too busy thinking to care. What was he supposed to do now? He had all the pieces together, now it was time to figure out what it all meant.

He had the evidence to prove Sherlock wasn't a fraud. Perhaps he could give it to the media? No. That would result in a mess that might spiral out of control. The media wasn't interested in the the truth, they only wanted what would sell. Maybe he could tell Mycroft...

Then it hit him in a moment of pure genius.

"_I'd be lost without my blogger..._"

Of course. That was John's purpose. His blog had a wide readership, all of which were supportive. The majority of his e-mails were fans sending him 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' messages, since he disabled comments on his most recent update. Some even publicly challenged the media, but the fad wore off before John could fully appreciate it.

He fired up his laptop and started to go over the list of things he could say without harming Molly or Dr. Spencer's reputations. Most of his story was going to have to be vague, but the footage alone would revive Sherlock's career far better than his words ever could. He was in the middle of typing out the post that would probably make him famous when Irene came up from behind him and put a soft hand on his shoulder.

"I wouldn't do that."

The comment made John stop in mid stoke. He looked up at her from over his shoulder. "What? This is what Sherlock meant for me to do, I know it is." For once he was certain... for once he figured out what it all meant. Then he looked at Irene's muddled expression and pulled away from the keyboard, a sinking feeling at his core. "Okay... what am I missing?"

The woman's eyes refused to meet his. "You've stopped reading the newspapers since they've been printing slander, haven't you?"

"Not entirely." Occasionally he'd read a headline or two, maybe a crossword.

Irene went over to her purse and fetched a vanilla envelope. She set it down on John's keyboard before sitting across from him and knitting her hands together. "Read that and tell me what you think."

Now it was like he was having a meeting with Mycroft. The formula was there. He would take a look at a clue and then feel the fool once he didn't catch the full meaning of the information. Mycroft had the benefit of being related to Sherlock though; John didn't feel like Irene earned the right to belittle him.

He took the envelope and peered inside. There were a bunch of newspaper clippings, some were in foreign languages, but most were English. He started to read them one at a time, his face slowly melting into a grim expression the more he read between the lines. They were all about bodies being discovered in strange circumstances, or high-profile criminals being brought to justice. There were names he half-remembered Sherlock muttering about, and some names he only saw in the media. Then there were the few he couldn't even pronounce let alone recall. All of them were horrible people – people Sherlock would have been glad to see dead or behind bars.

"And all of them are puppets of Moriarty." Irene added, as if following John's train of thought.

"Sherlock's doing." It wasn't even a question. Nothing was coincidental if Sherlock walked the Earth.

"I can't think of anyone else who has the power to capture so many across three continents in only a couple of months." The adoration in her voice made John set the clippings down heavier then he meant to.

"Some of these are murders."

"Do you think that frightens Sherlock? Do you think him incapable of killing? You've done it. He killed a man at my house. Imagine him running about in the shadows... untouchable by the law since the world thinks him dead. The possibilities are endless." Her eyes motioned to her collection of executions.

John shook his head. It was hard to imagine, but at the same time... it really wasn't. He could picture Sherlock murdering these people, but not _his_ Sherlock; the Sherlock who nicked ashtrays, who smiled at irony, who was happy to see Lestrade pull up in his cruiser with a mystery. That Sherlock died at St. Bart's. There was a monster now in his place.

"If you revive his career, and he returns from the dead... there are going to be some clever journalists out there who are going to make the same connections I did."

He could see what Irene was trying to tell him, and it put him in a very strange predicament. His mind knew the trouble he could potentially cause the detective, but at the same time, Sherlock was clever enough to weasel his way out of trouble. Was this excuse interference from his heart? Emotions were trying to undermine his head into justifying any action that would let him see his flatmate again.

John stared at his blog. The work in progress was beckoning to him, the blinking cursor calling his name. He needed to let the world know that Sherlock Holmes was a good man, and that he was out there waiting for them to believe. He started to type again, ignoring the look Irene was giving him – the look that screamed at him in silence. He knew she was quietly urging him to think this through and realize he was making a mistake.

The post was uploaded two hours later.

It took John less than 24 hours to realize that Irene had been right - but for all the wrong reasons.

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><p><strong>Author's Notes<strong>:

Taken apart, re-written, now I'm happy with it. I had certain plot points I needed to meet in this chapter that I utterly failed to write them when I was sick. I'm such an idiot. I think I ruined the flow of everything for any regulars to this fic... I'm sorry. The next two chapters are going to be epic, I promise. The end is nigh. The reunion is coming. **Please Read and Review**.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Author's Note**: Last chapter was revamped, it should look familliar, but it's double the length and contains a chunk of plot that will make this chapter really confusing if you don't go back and read. Sorry. I should have never posted anything when I am sick. Won't happen again.

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><p><strong>Playing the Fool<strong>  
><strong>.<strong>

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><p>Chapter Ten<p>

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><p>.<p>

His blog crashed from the flood of views by midnight, but it didn't stop the information. It slowly spread its fingers into the daylight and brought with it unexpected chaos. One click of a button and John had set England on fire, and every comment just fanned the flames. Newscasters and reporters were ringing his doorbell non-stop with microphones and cameras at the ready. By noon, people were rioting in the street on behalf of the reincarnated Consulting Detective. John stood at the window, utterly dumbfounded at the state of things. There were so many of fanatics that John couldn't count the deerstalkers. It would have been awe inspiring except that everyone wanted to see Sherlock - see the man that could come back from the dead.

The fact that John could relate made everything a little more close to the chest than he would have liked.

John turned away from the view and hastily drew the curtains, but it did nothing to quell the chanting from below. He needed to find some way to control this craziness before it got out of hand, yet he was still feverish and it made his mind slow at dredging up any potential solutions. In the end he did the only thing one could do in this situation... and that was make tea.

From the news on the telly John discovered that Scotland Yard and various Private Eyes were scouring London for the famous Mr. Holmes. John tried to talk to Lestrade about it by calling him up in a panic, but the DI wasn't picking up his mobile. When he tried to call him at his office, he was referred to others; strangers with even more questions. _Where did the video come from? How did Mr. Holmes do it? Where was Mr. Holmes now?_ After several minutes of this, John just took the battery out of his mobile and shut himself in his room.

To make matters worse, Irene had disappeared as soon as John hit the post button. She had warned him about the demons he would be unleashing, and it forced her to run before the world discovered that she too had returned from the grave. It was understandable, for unlike Sherlock, she would be attracting something thing darker than than a journalist with a tape recorder. What upset John, was he that didn't have the wisdom to follow in her wake.

John now faced his mistake alone – and it was surely a mistake. There was no doubt in his mind now. He should have revived Sherlock's career and left the rest of the story lie. Now there was never a moment of privacy. It became so bad that John decided to flee to the Spencer's for lodging. Unfortunately the plan required that he slip out of the bathroom window, crawl up the dodgy fire-escape and jump a rooftop to do it. Sherlock had told him never to use this route unless of dire emergency. It eluded Mycroft's surveillance and probably wouldn't work for more than one occasion. Things rarely worked against Mycroft more than once.

The leap across to the neighbouring the rooftop nearly killed him. He landed fine, but the dizzying gap made his heart pound and his head spin. John had to lean against an air handling unit to catch his breath and wipe his sweaty brow. He could feel the heat of his forehead before his hand was an inch from his face.

With a groan he continued his journey to the Spencer's, hoping that no one would recognize him once he it the streets. He felt like a celebrity evading the paparazzi.

.

John arrived a little after three in the afternoon and was ushered in off the sidewalk like a fugitive. All sense of time left him as a whorl of action hit him at once and he found himself shakily sipping tea in the familiar siting room of the Spencer's. Matilda wrung her hands together and offered him some liquid medicine in a dixie cup.

"You look like you're going to drop dead."

The doctor sank deeper into the sofa, the warmth of the tea making his skin feel uncomfortable.

"Fighting a fever... can't seem to catch a break." He murmured bleakly. There was little more to say and he felt far too tired than one should when the sun was still hours above the skyline. John wanted nothing more than to nap in peace - perhaps for the next twenty-four hours.

Mrs. Spencer read the weariness in John's face and immediately fetched the doctor a blanket.

"Here. You should rest. Samuel will be home in a few hours, I'll ask him not to disturb you. Try to sleep for as long as you can." There was such kindness in her smile that John immediately relaxed and took advantage of his serene surroundings.

"Thank-you... again... for everything." He wrapped himself up in the blanket she offered so that only his head was visible. It was a vicious shade of pink that reminded John of his first case with Sherlock.

"Is there anything else you need?" She asked as she drew the blinds to darken the room.

"No... but I think you should know that you'll make an excellent mother." His eyes gestured to the book on the table titled, '_Your Baby and You_' with a faint smile.

There was a sudden rosiness to her cheeks that John didn't expect. It was as if she were blushing from sheer happiness. "Just found out four days ago. Sam is over the moon. I was going to tell you, but the look on your face when you showed up at the door..." She sighed and gave the doctor a look of concern. "I think you have the worst of luck."

John let out a weak chuckle and closed his eyes, cuing Mrs. Spencer to flick the light switch and let darkness envelop him. He didn't remember much after that, since his fever swallowed him into a strangely familiar setting.

.

This time John could feel the wind whipping up at him from below, but the street beneath St. Bart's shifted and glowed red like an ember buried in the heart of the sun. Pure heat made his face feel like all the moisture had retreated into his core, and his eyes welled up with protective tears. He could hear Sherlock shuffling at his side and it brought him to attention. Bright blue eyes were angled downwards, gazing at the hell mouth below. Scarlet light played across the features of the detective's face, turning him into a demon one moment, and an angel the next.

"I wanted to take you with me John... but that would have been selfish." He said quietly, a hint of melancholy in the depths of his voice. "Instead I gave you the choice."

John wanted to move closer, but he his legs were too heavy to move. He felt like an extension of the hospital, or a gargoyle placed specifically to watch the world rather than to interact with it. Words were the only tool at his disposal now, and heaven knew he had lots of those to throw at Sherlock.

"There was never a choice." John could see his own face reflected in the light of Sherlock's eyes. The doctor looked calm, but inside he felt a torrent of anger that threatened to eat him alive. "I _couldn't _leave you - not to face this mad man on your own. I want to help you. Friends protect people Sherlock – and not by keeping secrets from each other."

"_Alone is what protects me._"

John was experiencing deja vu; but this time he had the time to detect the flaw in the detective's tone. He wasn't talking to John - he was talking to himself. Convincing himself that his statement was the truth. There was doubt, and where there was doubt, there was enough room for John to slip through the cracks and touch Sherlock at his core.

"You don't want to believe it, do you? You don't want to believe that I would protect you."

"I don't need protecting." Sherlock's replies started to sound more and more robotic, like he were a wind up doll. John's head started to hurt and the heat of the dream scape rose several degrees.

"You have every criminal in all of London under your magnifying glass, of course you need protecting! Everyone you talk to, everyone you turn away, or insult, or even _look_ at strangely wants to slit your throat. You can't pretend what I'm saying isn't the truth. Normal people don't have arch-enemies, but _damn it Sherlock_, you're _not_ normal. You can dissect, deduce and laugh at the ordinary, mundane... _senseless _lives of those around you, but you can never live one."

Sherlock's face loomed closer and John could see his features melting and twisting beneath the alabaster skin. Where were those sturdy cheekbones and expressive lips John knew so well? Nausea made the doctor's strength falter and he nearly fell to his knees. Sherlock -or what was pretending to be Sherlock, grabbed both his wrists and held him steady.

"You're normal John. You deserve an ordinary life." Sherlock's body language changed into something John rarely saw before. It was like every fibre of the detective's being was trying to make John see. Eyes like fire bore into his own and it hurt to keep eye contact. Hurt like he were staring into the sun.

John was having none of this. "You would wish that for me? You're looking right at me Sherlock; you're seeing with those damn eyes of yours. Tell me that's what I would have wanted. Look at me and _tell me_ I want a normal life!"

The detective let go of the man's wrists and took several paces backwards to appraise his flatmate in silence. John waited for a reply, but he already knew that Sherlock couldn't say the words. The deceit would have been too cheap – too flimsy of a lie to come from the mouth of Sherlock Holmes.

John's subconscious must have glitched then, because the rooftop was starting to crumble beneath them. He watched helplessly as bits of concrete spiralled into the crimson coals below.

"Looks like I'm coming with you whether you like it or not." John said through the sound of flames and moaning structure. "Adler was right... I _would_ follow you to the depths of hell."

The lanky detective let the shadow of a grin pass over his face before reaching out to grab John's hand. The doctor echoed his movements, smiling despite the fact they were in the midst of being sent toppling over the edge. In the confusion of falling Sherlock missed taking John's hand and his fingers grazed the man's forehead instead. His touch was cool like metal.

"_Wake up Dr. Watson._" Sherlock's voice mingled with a strangers. It sounded like a woman, but not like any woman John had ever met. There was fire in those words, mixed with malice. John tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt to heavy and he let out a groan instead.

"Come on doctor, I need you awake. It's time to play."

John struggled yet again to wake, but he felt like he was tethered to the depths of his imagination. Despite this, he shed that bond in less than a second as though mentally slapped; for in the darkness, John heard the sound of a gun being cocked.

.

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><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

All right, sorry that took forever since I went back and did a lot of editing. Rewriting the last chapter was difficult and it is now double the length of most my other chapters, hence why this one is a shorty. I couldn't break it evenly and I knew I wanted to end the tenth chapter here. Yay cliffhanger! I'm so happy to get to this point since now there's nothing but the finale~! I'm finally over my illness as well (I swear my sinuses were possessed by an evil spirit. Most painful headaches ever...) so updates will resume regularly.

**Please Read and Review**. I've missed your love, your wit, your critiques and your sentiment. I need your praise to continue like the filthy attention whore I am. Point out my mistakes! Proofreading is my greatest weakness.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Playing the Fool**

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><p>Chapter Eleven<p>

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><p>.<p>

The metal was cold against John's temple, and it sent a shiver through his bundled form. He struggled to discern a figure in the thick shadows of the living room, but his eyes hadn't yet adjusted to the gloom. Instead, he slowly shifted so that his limbs weren't hampered by the blanket and that the barrel of the pistol was now pointed at the centre of his forehead.

"What do you want?" John asked calmly, his voice hoarse from his fevered dream. He was surprised at his own bravery, for nothing was stopping this person from beating him into a compliant pile. His eyes tracked the movement of the gun as he went to sit upright. It followed with trained precision - his opponent was not just some thief in the night.

An annoying laugh was all that answered his question, and John wondered why he even bothered to be civil anymore. From the pitch of the laughter, he ascertained that his assailant was most definitely a woman. The dim light from the blinds confirmed this, for John could make out shoulder length blond hair and an angular face. Her arm was outstretched patiently and John was impressed that she managed to hold the heavy pistol steady for so long.

John could see thin lips curl into a sinister smile. "Let me tell you the rules of this game Doctor Watson. Wake the sleeping couple above us, and they will be sleeping forever; try to escape me and I'll cure that fever of yours with some fast-acting medicine of my own design."

"Who are you?"

"If I told you, it would ruin things." John noted that for a crazy person, she made her statements quite clear. Everything she said was clipped and to the point. "Now get up, we're leaving."

John usually asked '_where_' at this point in the abduction, but after the fourth time he had learned that it was futile to ask such things. Instead he opted for the seldom asked, "Why?"

The woman's brow knitted together in slight confusion. "I'm pointing a loaded gun at you. If you want to live you'll listen to my demands." She shook the weapon as if to emphasize it's existence.

John stood and took the time to fold Matilda's blanket while he talked. "All right, fine. Who am I to argue with a gun? I can only assume from all the theatrics that this has something to do with Sherlock?" Why was he so calm? There was a little voice in the back of his mind that was scared as all hell, but a stronger force was squashing it. Maybe it was the military training, the fever, or the fact that he was just too tired to care about what happened next; more probably it was the shock, and a part of him still hoped he was dreaming.

The blonde lowered her pistol and hissed, "If I weren't intent on being quiet I would have just shot you in the hand for your gall. You will follow me because your friend's life depends upon it - does that satisfy your curiosity Doctor?"

"So it is Sherlock then."

Pure fury rolled off the woman in waves. She wasn't used to her hostages talking back. "Yes! Now move!"

.

There was a van waiting for them outside and John stumbled towards it feeling the calmness from earlier start to wane. What was the purpose of his kidnapping? Surely he was being used as a tool to harm Sherlock in some way – perhaps lure him some place, or restrict his options like that time at the pool. Was it wise to disappear into that sleek black vehicle? He would only be causing Sherlock more trouble in the end...

John wanted to try and subdue the woman escorting him in order to take her gun; but there was something about her that made him hesitate. Her muscles were coiled, as if waiting for John to strike. If he didn't know any better, he would have thought she were hunting for a reason to hurt him. Bright brown eyes scanned the streets for witnesses, before the gun came back and levelled at John's head. She gestured with her available hand for the doctor to get into the van.

John stared at her, assessing his options.

She didn't like that.

"Get in or I will march back in there and leave a crime scene that even Sherlock Holmes won't want to see."

So much malice in such a compact form; John wondered where it stemmed from. He got into the van, forcing his mind to stop coming up with horrible scenarios as he did so.

Two burly thugs were waiting for him. One of them snarled for him to put his hands behind his back and unwound a length of stiff black rope. It was enough to cause John's composure to snap. He couldn't allow himself to be bound or there would be no hope of getting himself out of this conundrum if it started to go sour. His eyes widened and he made to back out of the vehicle, but the rear doors slammed shut behind him and there was no handle to open them again.

He had just enough time to swear under his breath before the two hoodlums jumped him and forced him to the ground. At first John started to thrash about, but after awhile he realized that it was useless to waste his energy resisting when there was no chance of escape at this juncture. A bag was forced over his head and his arms were cruelly bound behind his back so that his shoulders ached. He kicked at his captors till they left him alone in the corner to try and get comfortable. Every so often one would say something to the other in what sounded like Russian.

The rest of the trip was spent in terrifying silence, in which John tried to memorize the turns of the route they were taking. After half an hour of this, he realized that such things were futile. He wasn't Sherlock, and a part of him doubted even _he_ could work out an exact location with so few details.

They dragged him out of the van eventually (after what felt like an hour) and force-marched him down paved terrain. John strained his ears to pick up any environmental sounds that would give him a clue as to his whereabouts. He was met with the distant sound of a police siren and what he thought might be a boat. The dim light through the bag was very orange, so they could be somewhere industrial...? Near the Thames?

His thoughts were jarred by a cruel shove into sudden darkness.

The sound of a door being slammed shut behind him made him jump, and a hand touching his scalp made him duck and try to weave out from beneath it. The bag was ripped off his head, along with several of his hairs, and he looked around blearily, allowing his eyes to adjust to the intermittent brightness of a flickering hall light.

The house was old - _very_ old. It smelt of wood-rot and severe water damage. The carpets were so stained that it was impossible to tell what colour and type they originally were. John wondered faintly if there was even a carpet at all, and not just bits of grime and debris all crushed together. There was a dilapidated stairway leading upwards which took up half of the long hallway, but John was pushed past that and into the narrow corridor beyond.

The thugs from the van departed from him at this point to disappear into conjoining rooms. When John went to follow them his his eyes, the woman grabbed him by the back of his head and pointed his face forwards. "I wouldn't look around much if I were you. Not very many pleasant things to see."

She was right. The roof creaked above and did little to filter out the carnal noises that set the hair on the back of John's neck on end. He was trying to ignore it as they passed a group of very skinny girls huddled in the corner of what looked like a derelict parlour. They were barking like dogs and it took John a second to realize that that was just the sound of their distorted laughter. They were snorting lines of cocaine.

Girls – half his age, snorting cocaine.

John wanted to be sick.

There were others in the room passed out on mouldy sofas - vagrants by the look of them. Cheap beer and abandoned clothing added to their bedding and their smell. John couldn't tell if this place was a brothel, a hostel or a safe house for a drug ring at this point.

As John was propelled into a back room, he nearly stumbled over a man covered with meth sores that was sitting in a crumpled pile in the hall. He could have been dead for all John knew, since he couldn't see the rise and fall of the man's narrow chest beneath the grubby shirt. His eyes were open, unblinking and hollow. They attracted John, and he found he couldn't look away.

They brushed past him and despite the hand pushing his head forward, John looked back and saw that those eyes were now fixed on the back of his escort's head. There was a frightening expression gleaming within those dark depths that made the doctor look away.

John entered a brightly lit room that was better furnished than the rest of the house. It was a large study with several mismatched armchairs and even a bookshelf packed with assorted binders. Behind a heavy desk by the far wall sat a well-dressed man around John's age with sandy hair. He was talking to a fat man across from him who was wearing an expensive fur-coat. Both of them looked up when John and his unfavourable companion walked in.

"Jamie, I see you've brought the Captain."

John was slightly taken aback at the title. He was so used to being addressed as 'Doctor' that his old rank was jarring. He suspected that this man might have a military background, and was a little proud of the deduction.

The woman lowered her gun for the first time all night and set it in a holster off her hip. "Nearly gave me the slip when he ducked out of his flat. I thought he was on to me when he crawled out of the window..." The blonde shut the door and looked to the man with the fur. "I see Milverton made it."

The fat man shook a finger. "This is the last place I want to be."

"Is anyone going to explain why I'm being treated as a hostage?" John interrupted. His voice was cross since he didn't like the fact that these two well-to-do men were next door to a bunch of blitzed out teens. "I would say that I'm content to listen to you chat, but really I'm not. I don't think anyone would be after an abduction in the middle of the night." He felt as rude as Sherlock all of a sudden, and he wondered where the insolence had come from. He was tired and sick, and he felt like an animal led to slaughter. If they were going to kill him - or torture him for that matter, he hoped he didn't have to stand around with his arms like this for too long.

His outburst made the man behind the desk laugh. "A bit brave aren't you? I've heard that you were an excellent soldier, but looking at you... you wouldn't think it, would you?" He stood and strolled over to John, circling him as if he were a prize.

"You're the only thing keeping me alive at this point." His tone was polite, almost apologetic. "Just you being here made it so that we could relax for the first time in months, so I think a little missed sleep is worth it - for our sake at least." He stretched and then patted John on the back.

"For some reason Moriarty has gone mad and let his _plaything_ take us out one by one. The three of us are the only one's left in a circle that once could bring Britain to it's knees. We were told not to involve friends and family... but I don't think I'll be following that man's rules anymore."

John took a deep breath. "You can't keep me here forever."

"No. I know you would never last long in captivity Captain. I only need you here now so I can borrow time and get myself out of your friend's net. Three times he's cornered me, and I don't think I can survive a fourth."

"Who are you people?"

The question made the group pause and look at one another. The sudden tension didn't sit well with the doctor. It felt like there was a conversation going on through body language alone that John couldn't begin to comprehend. After a moment, the man smiled and turned John around so that he could get at the bonds around his wrists. A knife came out of nowhere, frightening John a little, before it made quick work of the taut ropes.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran." He offered a hand, but John didn't take it. To save face, Moran fluttered the hand in the direction of the man in the fur coat. "This is Mr. Milverton, and the lady is Colonel Moriarty."

The name made John stop and stare.

The woman rolled her eyes at John's reaction and leaned against Moran's desk. "Your friend killed my brother."

John wondered how his life had turned into the plot of a horrible soap opera.

"Does James Moriarty have any other siblings I should know about?" He looked to Moran, trying to make the question into a joke, but there was only one person was laughing – and that was Colonel Moriarty.

She let the chuckle drag into a long drawn out sigh, "Yes, but that's a story for another day."

"Now the real question is what to do with you?" Moran interjected as he put protective arm around John's shoulders, which instantly made the doctor want to duck out of his reach. He stayed however, if only to make himself look more cooperative than he felt. He glanced around the room to try and find some sort of improvised weapon, but he found something else that worked better.

"Smoke." John pointed with a slight inclination of his head towards the door.

All eyes moved towards the only exit where there were plumes of rich black smoke rolling up the frame. Instantly Moriarty drew her weapon and moved over to Sebastian, who grabbed John by the wrist and pulled him over to the corner of the room. His grip was strong and no amount of subtle wriggling on John's part would loosen it.

"You must have been followed." Moran hissed to the woman at his side.

"I assure you, not even the Ice Man could have tracked our movements. Remember Barcelona?"

"Then how!" He asked desperately as they watched the room slowly fill with thick darkness.

Milverton panicked and went to the door in order to escape before it got too bad, causing John and the two Colonels to scream out in tandem - but it was too late. His leather gloves failed to warn him of the danger through the brass doorknob and the sudden injection of oxygen into the flaming chaos beyond created an explosion that practically rocketed the man into the bookshelf. Binders and books fell on top of the man's unconscious form and John went to go check on him, but the hand on his forearm refused to let him go.

"He'll be dead if we don't get him away from the door!" John argued, giving Moran a glare that would have made Sherlock hesitate.

"We don't have the time." Moran snapped and looked to Moriarty, gesturing with his head to the window.

The woman moved like a large cat and glided across the floor to a stretch of wall beside the windows. She leaned over and peeked out cautiously, reminding John of his days on the battlefield. Her eyes sought out anything in the darkness that would threaten her survival.

"Smoke coming up from the basement. Not so much near the back door. They must have set the stairs alight and fled the other way. Whoever did this is still out there Sebastian." She looked back to her companion, then to the door hanging off of its hinges. "We might be able clear it to the front if there aren't any obstacles in the hall. You up for a few nasty burns?"

"You can't be serious..." John said weakly, looking from Moriarty to Moran. "The walls are on fire... you'll be literally toasted."

The flames were already spilling into the room, hungry for the carpet and the peeling wallpaper. John could feel the heat radiating from the door and he froze in terror at the thought of entering the inferno. There was no way he was going to survive this without second-degree burns.

Moran and Moriarty stripped Milverton of his fur-coat and without argument, Moriarty donned it and gave her Moran her gun. She took several deep breaths of tainted air, before locking eyes with her partner. "You better follow closely. Watson first. If I go down, shoot him and back-track. You know how Holmes operates by now... you'll have enough time to go out the window before he comes around."

There was no time for agreement before the woman ran into the flames, her footsteps adding to the crackling and the screaming within. Moran held the pistol to John's head and pushed him forward. "I could save you the pain Doctor Watson - with a quick death here. You would probably only slow us down anyway."

John didn't want to die, but he didn't want to burn either.

"You're going to need a doctor after this – I guarantee it Moran." He said quietly before pulling the sleeves of his jumper down over his hands. He tried not to think about how awful this was going to be as he approached the fire and tried to ascertain a route. The smoke obscured all vision and his eyes burned. All the orifices of his face started to water and his throat closed up. If it wasn't for Moran half dragging him into the hallway he would have probably changed his mind and taken the bullet.

"**MOVE!**" The man practically shrieked over the sound of terrified shrieking from upstairs. The shout made Moran lapse into a coughing fit. He had inhaled too much soot.

John acted upon the opportunity before he could properly think it over. As Moran was raising his right arm to shield his face while he coughed, John grabbed his wrist and twisted so that his grip on the pistol was loosened. In seconds the gun was in John's possession and pointed at the Colonel.

Unfortunately that is when Moriarty emerged from behind them looking crispy and hysterical. "Back! He's-"

She spotted her gun in John's hands.

The doctor instinctively went to change targets, but it was the biggest mistake of his life. He had forgotten that Moran carried a knife.

In the second it took for him to turn around and acknowledge Moriarty's sudden presence, John felt a sharp pain near his kidney and let out a cry of agony. His finger tensed, squeezing the trigger, and by pure fluke he shot Moriarty in the throat. She didn't even have to luxury to scream as she writhed in anguish. Blood flew everywhere and it sizzled in the heat.

John hit the floor first, with Moriarty's corpse landing on top of him. Fire had leapt upon the both of them and John could feel it searing his flesh through his trousers. He couldn't breathe, and his vision was fading. He saw the shoes of Moran hesitate before retreating with lightening speed back into the study.

Whimpering John tried to free himself from the torture of being trapped by a body and burned alive, but he lacked the strength. He felt the blood pouring from his abdomen, pooling beneath him only to scab in the heat. There was also the agonizing sensation of his skin charring on his calves, causing him him to scream as if the noise would somehow make everything okay.

He was going to die here - here, of all places.

"_But, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more ___miracle___, ___Sherlock___, for ___me..___._"

Weight shifted, perspectives whirled as someone flipped him over. It was a shadow of black curls and long thin fingers moving over his body. John laughed and cried as it held his arms in a vice grip and pulled him through embers and debris. His ears made out strings of sentences he couldn't comprehend, but the voice. The voice is all he wanted to hear.

"_John! Stay awake for me John!_"

"._..for me..._"

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><p><strong>Author's Notes<strong>:

Again, I took forever, but I hope this chapter makes up for it. It's hella long and has a ton of stuff in it. I'm hoping it will make you salivate for the next and final chapter. I like chapter's full of action! I could sit down and write them for hours. Sorry if it feels a little out of place since so far its been nothing but talking and John investigating. I think John's character in this one needs a bit of a clean-up. He's at the point where nothing is surprising him anymore though, but I think I made him come across as a little too forward.

Also, the thing about Moriarty's sister - In the books there are theoretically three Moriarty brothers, two of which are named James Moriarty (possibly the third as well). One works at a train station, the other is a Colonel and the third is a Professor. Apparently it was common practice back then to name your kids the same and only switch up the middle names (Mary Clarence, Mary Ann, Mary Jane etc...). I found it odd that Jim Moriarty isn't a professor in the series (which is something he's known for. It's always _Professor_ Moriarty - like _Doctor_ Watson. I don't think Moffat would have left it out accidently). That and Jim did a lot of the leg work in the second finale, which contradicts - "_He organizes these things but no one ever has direct contact._". Lastly, this bothers me a tad - "_He was so— his voice. He sounded so soft..._" Does Jim's voice sound soft to you?

So I threw in Colonel Jamie Moriarty. Just because her male counterpart does exist in the books, and if I remember correctly, he tries to sue Sherlock... or Watson, for making his brother sound like a criminal.

Please **Read and Review**! I lost a bunch of you guys ;.; and I miss the feeback. Tell me what I did wrong and I will do my best to fix it~!


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Playing the Fool**

**.**

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><p>Chapter Twelve<p>

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><p>.<p>

The world was a haze of pain, soot and mud as John found himself hoisted unceremoniously on top of something soft. He found himself outside, witnessing a sky full of embers and smoke. The burning building he was just pulled out of was starting to collapse in on itself. John watched like a man possessed as a familiar silhouette bobbed in and out of view; there was absolute panic written over every feature of his face, but John couldn't bring himself to worry. He had seen this face, tinged with the light of hellfire before. This was just another feverish dream.

Then the world cut in, sharp as a knife, and sound rippled through the doctor in a wave of immense pain. Sirens were wailing and people were screaming in the distance. It was like Afghanistan all over again and a rush of adrenalin made the doctor's head spin. John tried to sit up, some part of his brain itching to help, but he was pushed back down by a strong hand

John wheezed, groaning in pain as he tried to sit up yet again, "I can - I can _fix_people..." He was suddenly cut off by blinding agony since something was painfully driving itself into his open knife wound. He cried out, but was silenced by a scarf forced into his mouth.

"I need you to shut up John. Bite onto that if you must." Sherlock said tersely, his alabaster face swimming into John's vision. There were heavy lines under the man's eyes, and his hair was an absolute mess.

John spat out the scarf and groaned to fight off some of the pain. "_You_... you made me think you were **dead**."

"Stop talking!" Sherlock hissed as he looked to John's legs and saw the horrid burns there. His eyes roamed over the doctor's body, categorizing and assessing every wound, getting more anxious the more he saw. "The ambulance will be here in a few minutes, keep still."

"I swear to god... I'm going to k-kill you for real... if... if I survive this." John choaked out, clenching his teeth till he they were in danger of chipping. He resisted the urge to squirm under the pressure Sherlock was applying to his abdomen.

There was a weak chuckle that escaped the detective's throat, but it was quickly bitten back as he took in the agony visible in John's puffy eyes. "Just a few minutes longer John..." He whipped his head around as a fire truck arrived in the distance and started to slow. John could hear the shouts of the fire-fighters and he felt momentarily relieved that help was arriving.

Sherlock's fingers sought out John's hands, which were clenching at the moldering casing of the discarded mattress he tossed him onto. Gently he dragged the trembling limbs to the improved dressing that was stained bright red through the white of some unknown fabric. Sherlock pressed down, hoping that his friend would comprehend the motion and do the same. "John, stay awake. I-" He hesitated, fighting with whatever he was about to say. "I need to go."

"Y-you're leaving me here... like this?" John questioned weakly, not believing what his formerly dead flatmate was saying.

A man bearing reflective stripes spotted the pair from the side of the house and called out something inaudible over the crackling flames spewing from the backdoor. Sherlock looked up and then back down. "It's not over. I can't..." He looked into John's eyes and set his lips into a grim line. "I can't – not yet."

John was about to say something in reply when the detective disappeared into the flickering shadows. He was replaced almost instantaneously by a fire-fighters wearing a mask. He asked John something he couldn't remember before others joined him with what looked like a stretcher. Next thing he knew was pain, and lots of it, before the darkness that was lingering at the corners of his vision finally claimed him.

.

There was only one thought running through John's mind when he woke up, and that was a urgent need for silence and solitude. There were too many conversations going on in his head - all of them wrapped up in hazy nightmares that made the doctor want to scream at the world to stop this giant charade. He was tired of being a puppet. Tired of thinking about how tired he was.

His eyelids felt so heavy, but he opened them anyway to encounter beautiful darkness. Obviously he was in a hospital – a private room by the looks of it. There was a small window to his right, which from John's perspective, offered a clear view of the night sky. He was momentarily confused by this and went to check the time, but his watch had been removed and replaced with the familiar tubing of an IV. He frowned and stared up at the ceiling.

Sherlock. The bloody fool had shown himself at last. John was half glad he had been stabbed and nearly burnt to death since it prevented him from taking the idiot's head off. At this very moment the fool was probably out chasing Moran around London.

Thinking of the Colonel made the memory of killing Jamie Moriarty spring to mind and John cringed. How many times had he killed an enemy of Sherlock Holmes, and how many times did he glance at Irene's newspaper clippings and frown at the thought of Sherlock doing the same?

Just what was going on? He needed to know, now more than ever.

Something touched his unmolested hand and it made John's heart leap into his throat. He almost screamed, except he instantly recognized the shadow looming over him and the cry was extinguished.

"How long have you been watching me like that!" He hissed, keeping his voice down so that the nurses outside wouldn't do anything dramatic.

"Only a few moments. From what I overhear, you've been sleeping for 28 hours."

John stared up at the gaunt face that was appraising him with a look of indifference. The expression scared the doctor and put all thoughts of an argument on hold. He needed to try and coax a rational explanation out of the detective before any punches could be thrown.

"I'm so... _angry_ at you right now Sherlock. No – beyond angry... _disappointed_ in the extreme. These last few months have been... I don't even have an adjective to describe the special brand of hell you put me through, and not just me Sherlock: Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, your brother-"

Sherlock laughed. It was a bitter laugh that made John turn red with fury.

"I can't believe you can just... _laugh it off!_"

"It was the only way John." The detective closed his eyes and let the poisonous smile fall from his lips. "I made a few mistakes in predicting those around me. Nothing too damaging. It was a brilliant piece of work, but you were slow. Moriarty grew over confident... let me claim my _victory_." There was so much hate in the word 'victory' that John became quite confused.

"So... you won then? You're free to drop this stupid act and try to piece together a normal life? Not to mention give Mrs. Hudson a heart attack once she catches the sight of you."

The detective walked around John's bed and sat himself down heavily in a chair. He rubbed his hands together and stared at his fingertips. His body was tense and John could tell he was desperately refraining from throwing things.

"John... I failed."

The doctor tried to shuffle to a sitting position, but he mewled in pain and remained where he was. Sherlock's eyes darted to John at the noise, but then returned to his hands. This made John sigh wearily and lean back into his pillows.

"I'll bite then. How so...? Start from the beginning because I may have worked _some_ of it out, but there are a lot of places where I'm lost."

"Moriarty." Every syllable of the name was uttered with hostile respect. "I first suspected that everything wasn't as it seemed when he allowed himself to appear in court. It did not fit his profile. Moriarty is a man who works in the shadows. He is the puppeteer above it all. A man who is skilled at pulling strings would _never _throw himself into the stage lights. Something was wrong."

John watched his friend clench his jaw and stew in the negative emotions that were surely stirring in that brain of his. He wanted to say something to defuse the situation, but he found himself helpless.

"How do you sell a lie John? Remember?"

The doctor blinked in response and tried to figure out where Sherlock was going with this. "You... bury it in truth?"

"Precisely. The journalist's flat is where I began my theory. Moriarty was a figment of my imagination remember? Richard Brook, the actor I hired to play the role? Moriarty waved the answer in my face like I was some idiot boy who needed a leg-up. Jim Moriarty was just another puppet and I was a fool not to realize it sooner."

His hands clenched themselves into fists and he let out a long sigh of frustration. "I realized then that it was his intent to push me into his realm. He wanted to best me on an even playing field, but then I went and made myself famous. How was a man who lived in the dark places of London supposed to interact with a man surrounded by cameras and fanatics? He offered me the choice of blackening my reputation and getting one step closer to thwarting him, or to live in the limelight surrounded by easily manipulated idiots who could turn against me with a wave of his hand. I made my choice John. It would have been easy if it wasn't for you."

Sherlock looked up from his hands and adopted a look of anguish that made John want to tell him everything was all right. But it wasn't. John felt like he had been betrayed and he was only beginning to understand why.

"I didn't want..." Sherlock paused, trying to express himself, but the emotions he was trying to convey got all muddled in his head.

"- to leave me behind, I know Sherlock; but you did, and you can't change that."

"The last thing you said to me - before that phone call - was 'friends protect people'. I knew you would understand. He threatened to kill you and everyone else that mattered if I didn't leave you all behind. I was selfish though, I couldn't let you forget me. For some reason... I just couldn't cope with you believing that..."

"You were dead?"

"No, not... not _exactly. _I liked myself through your eyes John. It pained me to marr that vision. I had to or the world would believe in you, since you would believe in me. Do you understand?"

"Not a wit. It doesn't explain the note you left with Molly and the other clues you left."

"Aa... that was, a change of plans. Mycroft's idea., he guessed at Moriarty's motives and gave me some contingencies if things started to deviate from the plan."

"Wait. Mycroft? He was under the impression you were dead! I talked to him – _twice_!"

"He thought my plan was risky, and there was some chance I would kill myself overdosing on whatever benzodiazepine I would have on hand. He wanted to meddle but I cut him out last minute which had him in a bit of a bind. He played his cards right as usual though. You were a switch John. People cried out on my behalf and created all sorts of chaos when I died. Only fools believe what they read in the papers, and despite what I say, not everyone in this city is a complete imbecile. All they needed to uncover the truth and resurrect me was you." Sherlock locked eyes with John and gave him a faint smile that was the warmest expression the doctor had ever seen on that man's face.

"_You_." Sherlock closed his eyes and then turned his face away so that he could look out the window. The pale moonlight highlighted the detective's features the way John thought he would only ever see again in his memories.

"Mycroft knew that you would eventually expect this mess to be more than it seemed. When that happened, he was to spur you on your search for the truth. Molly had the evidence of Jim Moriarty's true nature, you would only be able to use it after two months, which is when she returned from the vacation I planned for her. Two months was enough time for me to slowly undermine the true Moriarty – by taking out his contacts... one by one."

"Sherlock-"

"Don't protest my actions John. Honestly, you and Lestrade continue to try and confine me to your silly concepts of morality. What is morality? Right and wrong defined by religion? By society? Why should I be bound by such an invisible thread when I am dead in the eyes of the law and put into the perfect position to dole out justice as I see fit?"

"You aren't god Sherlock."

"There is no god John, but I am the next best thing."

John sat in stunned silence for a moment. "You... are the vainest... most _impossible_-"

"Someone had to take down Moriarty, and I was ready. There is no other remotely _close_ to his genius."

"Right. Moving on. So you killed or caught everyone but Moran, Colonel Moriarty and that other man... Millerton?"

"Milverton. Yes, Moran was one of my first targets, but he was slippery. A very cautious man. Miss Moriarty wasn't someone I was going to concern myself with since I had no evidence of any wrong doing on her part... but Milverton - that man was destined for a sticky end. I was trying to catch him in my net whilst there were four others trying to kill him. It was a very delicate situation. I decided to leave them until the next stage of the plan commenced."

"Which was?"

"Moriarty's true goal." Sherlock stood then, his height doubling and making John crick his neck to adjust his eye level. The man began to pace at the foot of John's bed.

"There was no explanation for Moriarty allowing me to capture his pawns one after another. He left them open - practically abandoned them. I could only assume that he _meant_ for me to take them – take them where? Prison? I was Daniel herding the lions in the den, all Moriarty had to do was make me lie down with them. How? My footsteps were invisible and I did not let my mind slip. He couldn't _touch_ me." Sherlock halted and shook his hands. "I was frustrated and I sought answers, getting closer and closer to the centre of the web until at last I intercepted communication between Moriarty and his sister. That was only a week ago and it wasn't much. I learned that the corpse on top of St. Bart's was the brother, not _The Professor _as those in the London underworld call him_._ They were watching you John. Waiting. You were involved somehow - even though Moriarty would have considered it rude. I was tailing Milverton when I heard Moran give the order to fetch you. Miss Moriarty was playing to both Moran and her brother by complying. I told Mycroft – it was the first contact with him in months – to pull you out of Baker Street."

"I wasn't there... I was at the Spencer's that night." John sighed, realizing the mistake.

"Your spies followed you where Mycroft couldn't. When Mycroft figured out you were missing I had to improvise. I never intended for you to play the victim. I was going to smoke out both Moran and Milverton, but they were clever and knew that while you were a hostage I was severely limited in my options. I saw you being taken into the study, and I knew then that I was going to have to keep to the plan and hope that in the chaos I could save you."

John felt every tired nerve in his body and tried not to blame the detective, but he was still a little peeved.

"You left me to chase Moran."

"I found him, and I figured out Moriarty's plans for you through him. Moran was a clever man and he knew that he wouldn't evade my guile for long. You were a double edged hostage. If Moriarty wanted you for his nefarious purposes he was going to have to cut him a deal. It was a desperate move. After some coaxing he told me why you were so valuable. You were destined to be a sacrificial lamb. Moriarty was going to have you killed you as soon as you announced to the world I was alive, and then I was to be framed for it." Sherlock snarled. "Poison the world against Sherlock Holmes! He wouldn't be able to use his mental prowess to prove his own innocence! I would have floundered in my grief and my rage, and prison would be inevitable. There I would be forced to eat the rotten fruit of my labour. I wouldn't last two days. It would have been complete and total ruin."

The doctor stared at the dark figure, glowing in the faint light outlining the doorway. "But you won."

"I fooled him this time John, but he is untouchable now. He knows that this plan has fell through and he pulled out of the game. He could be anywhere, pretending to be anyone... living pretty with blood money I can never trace. I'll never know when he'll return to try and fool me again. I am paranoid John. I... I am _scared_."

The detective slowly lowered himself onto the hospital bed and gripped the edges of the mattress with his long slender fingers. "John. I am going to be hunted... forever... lest I keep to the shadows."

"Sherlock. Listen to me. Your brother is Mycroft Holmes; he manages security for the bloody Queen. I'm certain he'll step things up a notch to protect his little brother. You also have me. I'm not much, but I'm a solder and a doctor... and willing to patch you up or watch your back every moment of my life if need be. The world needs you, you give people hope Sherlock. Hope when the police are at the end of their rope, and when the small things just don't add up."

John put a hand on his friend's shoulder and squeezed. "I will also scream like a stuck pig if you try to leave my sight for a second time."

Sherlock chuckled, "By the time the nurse arrives I could be out the window. Her reaction times are very slow. Someone forgot to stock up on coffee in the staff room. All that was left was decaf. _Pity._"

"You're staying. I mean it."

The detective closed his eyes and put on of his own hands over the one on his shoulder. "I'm going to regret this."

"You're damn right you are." John released Sherlock and shuffled in his bed so that he was more comfortable. "I'm going to savour every lecture Mrs. Hudson is going to give you, and make you wear that stupid hat when the reporters get a hold of you. "

"Really? The hat John? Of all punishments – the hat?"

"Don't look at me like that. You hate that thing above all else. I think you'd rather hug your brother then wear that atrocity in public again."

"Will you give me the choice?"

"Can I be present with a camera? It would make a lovely Christmas card for Lestrade."

Sherlock huffed and glared at John, but the grin on the doctor's face made Sherlock's scowl melt in seconds and they both started to chuckle. They were still laughing when Mrs. Hudson burst in with a basket of fruit for John. She nearly fainted at the sight of the world's only consulting detective back from the grave, which made Sherlock get up to help her to a chair.

Instead of taking his hand she began to beat him viciously with the fruit basket, sending several oranges and a cantaloupe flying onto John. She was still shrieking things in a pitch so high no one could tell what she was saying when John ordered her to stop through a fit of laughter. The woman started to weep and shake from the emotional trauma before Sherlock gave her a hesitant hug and she latched onto him as if afraid she'd fall off the face of the earth otherwise.

"_There there_ Mrs. Hudson. I promise I'll never do that again. " He patted her back while she sobbed uncontrollably into his chest.

"You... you _damnable_ boy..." She cried, hitting him and pulling away. "I thought I was rid of your foul manners!"

"Dry your eyes Mrs. Hudson, people might think I was the one doing the beating." Sherlock grabbed a Kleenex from John's bedside and handed it to her. She started to mop up her face and pick up the fruit she scattered everywhere. She was stuttering through a string of soft curses before she pointed a finger at her resurrected tenant.

"I'm not d-done with you yet. _Oh_... I need to lie down. My head is s-splitting."

Sherlock guided her to the chair he had occupied earlier and stood awkwardly on the other side of John's bed. Every time Mrs. Hudson looked up and caught sight of the detective she broke out in fresh sobs.

"Really now! There's no need for that!" It was getting on Sherlock's nerves.

"Feeling guilty yet?" John said smugly.

The detective looked away. John knew that there was guilt there, at his core, but more that that – there was joy. That hug from Mrs. Hudson changed him and soothed the rough edges of his soul. They were all back together now, and things could start to return to the way they were before.

Sherlock had come back home.

.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>:

Well there you have it. I suck at endings, and this one took me ages to write. I wanted more of Moriarty's plot to work out, but Moran's involvement really screwed it up. This is what happens when you let characters roam freely instead of planning it out.

Thanks for sticking with me to the bitter end. Somewhere down the line I might throw in a bonus chapter like I did with **Exception to the Rule**. If you haven't read that one yet... I think it's better than this one. I'm also doing an AU fic called **The Twisted Games We Play** which takes place in a mental hospital and it's going to be very very dark. Maybe I'll see you around! One last time - please **Read and Review**! Tell me if you liked it, hated it, think I should never write again. Even if you're reading it all in one giant chunk months from now, I still love feedback. I make a bajillion grammatical errors and I need you all to sort me out - only way I'll ever get better!

Take care.


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